Dum fortuna fuit
by Chaed
Summary: Wesker learns more about the virus and Birkin realizes the threat Umbrella poses to his work. pRE2. Ch19: The game comes to an end. But not in William Birkin's favor.
1. Chapter I

**dum fortuna fuit  
**while fortune lasted

By: **Chaed  
**Rating: **T  
**Disclaimer: **Ain't** **mine**.

**A/N: At this point I would advise new readers to have a look at **_ab initio_**, **_bene merenti_** and **_ab esse ad posse_** to understand every detail of this story. It can, however, also be read as stand alone, if you like. I will try to cover the events of its predecessors as good as possible.**

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Chapter I

Ada Wong sat at a diner in downtown Raccoon, sipping at the devilish concoction the waitress called coffee. She placed the can back on the table and proceeded to add another lump of sugar to the drink. If anything could make it endurable it was sugar. Ada had already tried with milk, but apart from giving it an even worse color it hadn't considerably managed to change the taste.

She stirred everything together and brought the coffee to her lips again taking a careful swallow. Not good, but definitely better. The sweet taste of sugar managed to drive away the coffee's natural aroma long enough so she could swallow it.

Even though the service at this diner was lousy most of the time Ada still loved it for its quietness. In the three years she had frequented the place she had always been served the same coffee by the same waitress and usually there were only the same three guests sitting at the other tables.

In a corner sat a businessman. He wore a neatly ironed blue suit with matching tie and always had his briefcase at hand from which he would pull out the Raccoon Daily and browse through the events of the day. He enhanced his coffee with three lumps of sugar and drank it all while having a glance at the stockmarket. When the waitress, a thirty-something old woman with freckles and dirty blond hair asked him if he wanted a refill he always said yes, but never finished the second cup.

The other two regulars were an elderly pair usually sitting at a table by a plant that was in dire need of a decent watering, near to the kitchen. They didn't drink coffee, instead always chose Earl Grey Tea.

_Probably because there's not much there can be done wrong about it_, Ada mused as she stirred through her own coffee. One day she'd have to try it too.

But that would go against the entire reasoning why she was here. Ada loved this place for its lack of change. Over the period of three years there had been no incident and the course of events was always the same. She entered the diner, sat down at the table beside the window and in a time frame of five minutes (depending on the waitresses' mood) she would have her steamy cup of second class coffee served.

Sometimes it felt good to be able and retreat to a place where change was an unknown word. Especially in times like these, when the world decided to take a bounce and spin into a new dimension it was reassuring to be able to cling on to a part of the past.

The Mansion Incident, a name widely spread by the Raccoon media. All newspaper articles of the last two days had in some fashion mentioned the destructive fire of the Spencer Mansion. On television the Incident was the major topic of most talk shows and newscasts.

Ada glanced over at the businessman in the corner and wondered whether the page of Raccoon Daily he was currently reading contained any new information on the event. Most assuredly, the entire town talked about little else than the Spencer Incident.

For Ada, who knew the truth – or at least parts of it – the odd conspiracy theories people were able to come up with were even more ridiculous than they might seem to the rest of the citizens.

Officially the reason for the fire was explained by human failure and the condition of the building. The old wood had been a perfect nutriment for the flames and so they had managed to devour the biggest parts before the firemen had arrived. A considerably big explosion had been caused by the huge oil container located in the sublevels that had been responsible for heating.

The blame for said human failure, so Ada had learned, had been pinned on the members of STARS, Raccoon's Special Tactics and Rescue Service. Bad mouths rumored that the team had been under the influence of drugs or other mindbending substances and had laid the fire themselves.

STARS had been sent out to investigate recent cannibal murders occurring in the Arklay Mountains. When the lesser experienced Bravo Team had gone MIA, their sister team, Alpha, had been mobilized to rescue their comrades.

From the twelve members only five had made it back to the RPD in the early morning, shortly after the explosion. Chris Redfield, Jill Valentine, Barry Burton and Brad Vickers from Alpha Team and the Bravo Team medic Rebecca Chambers.

So much to the facts. In reality there had been six survivors, though only two other people knew about the latter's existence. Ada was one of the lucky ones. Dr. William Birkin, one of Umbrella's finest researchers, was the other to know the truth.

The captain of Alpha Team, Albert Wesker, had also made it out of the Mansion alive. Ada had been there to pick him up. Gravely injured, but not dead – not in the least – they had later met up with Birkin, who had been the man responsible for Wesker's endurance of the lethal wounds.

Ada was still questioning the nature of the substance the STARS captain had injected himself with, but it was hard to draw conclusions on its effects, other than the regenerative abilities that had kept the man very much alive.

The only details she had been able to pick up from Birkin and Wesker's discussion in an old warehouse (it wasn't so far away from here; there had even been a small column about the suppositional 'raid' in the news) was that the former STARS commander had been infected with the T-virus during his mission at the Spencer Estate. The substance Birkin had provided him with was somehow able to restrain the virus' effects on the host and manipulate it to its wishes, emancipating only its positive attributes.

_Like those surpassing regenerative abilities_, Ada suggested silently.

She glanced over at the old couple near to the kitchen – apart from the businessman the only other guests at the moment – but they seemed to be talking about something else than the Spencer Incident.

Ada wondered whether Wesker had learned about the other STARS' survival. He probably had. Raccoon City was talking about nothing else and if he had left town – the surrounding communities were also talking about it.

From what Ada had gathered on that fateful morning Wesker had assumed to be the only survivor of the disaster. Only that he wasn't – which probably wasn't much of a bother to him anyway, because Albert Wesker was a dead man to the world, just like many of his fellow comrades from STARS.

However, the remaining members of the elite division had found out more about Umbrella during their swipe through the Mansion than Ada would have thought. They had uncovered the truth about the company's nature, that their specialization did not only cover pharmaceuticals, but also production of bioorganic weapons.

And they knew that Wesker had been a double agent working for Umbrella. He had lured the STARS into the Mansion on purpose in order to collect battle data of BOW against human soldiers. The surviving members insisted that the Estate had been haunted by zombies, undead monsters and other unthinkable creatures.

They had supposedly also scooped up a few reports on experiments that had been conducted in the underground laboratories for which the Mansion had only been used to shield from curious eyes. Ada had been shocked about the discoveries when she had first heard about them. Not because the material was new to her, but because she thought it would mean Umbrella's end.

The company however had already managed to pull itself out of heap of accusations thrown at them. They had identified the files as falsifications, produced evidence against the secret laboratories and had marginally – but effectively – reminded the city of all the donations and facilities it contributed to the little town.

Perhaps their most effective weapon against STARS had been their tie in the police department: Brian Irons, the chief of police himself. He had been the one who had alleged STARS with intake of drugs and irrational actions that had led to the death of their teammates. In essence, he had put them on suspension and in cowork with Umbrella personally executed investigations to clear up what 'really' happened at the Mansion.

Being a company for whom money was no problem Umbrella had other agents planted throughout the entire regimen of Raccoon and had successfully managed to free itself of all blames and instead convinced the citizens of its benevolence by mobilizing all forces to find the true reason behind the fiasco and bring those to justice who deserved it.

If Ada hadn't known what she did, she would have probably bought every sentence the Umbrella manager said.

But now, at this time, Ada allowed herself to say that she knew more than the company.

They had been outrageous about Wesker's suggested alliance with them and had confirmed his death – both officially as STARS officer and throughout the internal Umbrella network as counterintelligence agent.

Ada had tried to gather as much information about the incident as possible in the last two days. Before Wesker had sent her and Birkin away he had pointed out that he would contact them both and judging by the man's current state, every bit of additional knowledge could be the key to her own success.

She had ineffectively tried to contact John Howe, her own Umbrella insider. Ever since Wesker had first addressed her about her planned leave from the company she had grown careful and decided to make her own backup plan. It had included the young scientist Howe whom Ada had befriended. Since March they had been a pair and John loved to talk about his work. He had been positioned in Birkin's branch, the Raccoon Plant.

Yesterday Ada had learned of John's early passing. He had been at the Spancer Estate during the outbreak, and like every employee had not survived the viral contamination. She had never thought that John's death would affect her, but then again, she had never thought he would die in the first place.

With John had also passed a rather important source of information, especially now when Ada would have liked to contact Dr. Birkin. They had made acquaintance shortly after Wesker had escaped the Mansion, but Ada's head had been occupied by other things at that time, and she had forgotten to ask the researcher about any way to contact him.

Wesker had said he would contact both of them, but Ada wanted to find out more about the thing the man had become before giving him a reunion hug. Whatever other effects Birkin's substance had on the STARS commander's body, it had just amplified the danger he posed to Ada by a million.

Mostly because the backup plan of her backup plan had consisted of shooting him if their deal did not turn out in her favor. Wesker might have been a brilliant agent and scientist, but Ada wasn't ashamed of her skills either. Perhaps she was able to hit him even now, but she doubted that the bullets would have any effects.

_And you don't want him to get angry… just remember that strength… and the speed._

Oh, she did. It had even left a mark, both physically and mentally. Ada would be careful how she approached him in the future. Despite the injury to his abdomen he had twisted her hand with such a force that it had left bruise on her arm – the reason she was wearing a long sleeved blouse in the middle of an above-average hot August morning. He had moved so quickly that Ada had not been able to follow him with her eyes, and wriggling out of the titanium grip had been impossible.

She was sure that if he had wanted to, he could have effortlessly broken her hand.

_Don't tempt fate._

Ada brushed over the arm unconsciously. Where he had taken that inhuman strength from was a mystery to her. It probably stood in close connection to the substances flowing through his veins even if she didn't yet understand all the effects. Birkin and Wesker, as brilliant as they might be, probably still had their doubts too.

With this new twist in the story Ada wondered what Wesker intended to do now in terms of their 'deal'. Before the Mansion Incident they had taken a mutual agreement of cooperating against Umbrella and making their transfer to one of the rivaling companies as easy as possible.

Would Wesker still approach a corporation in his current state? And more importantly, should Ada wait for him, or try to save her own hide as long as she could? After all she had no means of contacting him and the man could appear on her doorstep the moment when she got home or in ten years. Ada would not wait ten years.

Wesker had become even more unpredictable than ever and she didn't see a reason why she should play along with all his rules. This was about more than just an 'unspoken agreement' and she was sure that the former STARS commander wouldn't bother to leave her behind either.

For all Ada knew he could already be dead. There hadn't been talk about the durability of the serum. It could just as well break under the pressure of having to sustain an entire human body and Wesker could fall over dead from one minute to the other.

There was no use waiting for a dead man.

Ada took another sip of the horrible coffee, promising herself to contact the people from the company she was in talk with tomorrow. With John dead and Umbrella having slipped into a very delicate situation there was nothing to keep her in Raccoon City anymore.

There was a vibration in the pocket of her jeans, accompanied by a ring tone. Ada quickly fished out the small device and looked at the screen to identify the caller. Suppressed number. She flipped the phone open and pressed it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Miss Wong."

Ada's heart leaped into her stomach. The voice was unmistakable.

"What do you want?" she asked flatly, the emotion in her voice repressed like the number he was calling from.

"Don't exaggerate with the small talk, will you?" from one moment to the other his tone grew stern, "I require your assistance."

Ada didn't think before replying, which, in retrospect, had probably been a bad thing, "Sorry, I'm busy these days."

"It was no question, Miss Wong, if you interpreted it that way."

"I'm not obligated to you in any way. Whatever you want – do it yourself."

"My, what tone," he said calmly, but warning, "have you forgotten about our talk?"

"No, I haven't. But there was never a mention that it'd apply even beyond death."

"Miss Wong, I don't want to prolong this call anymore than necessary, but I feel I have to point out that we are both alive and healthy."

Ada rolled her eyes. Of course…

"What do you want?" she repeated, but this time in another tone.

He came straight to the point, "Use your Umbrella identity to collect the STARS' reports and all other files associated with the Spencer Mansion from the Chief of Police, Brian Irons. He will give them to you willingly, if you stress that you are one of the company's executives. I suggest you take care of the matter tomorrow morning, since the documents need to be returned in the evening ere the true agent comes to pick them up."

She could piece one and one together so she asked, "Roundevouz point?"

He was silent for a moment before suggesting, "What about Café 13, Downtown Raccoon? I heard it was one of your favorites…"

Ada frowned, "No," not here. This place didn't respond well to changes, and of all people she didn't want him here, "Not in Raccoon. There's a small gas station about 20 miles east of the city."

"Indeed. Tomorrow 12pm. Be punctual."

The line went dead after that. Ada tucked the phone back into the pocket of her jeans and left a five dollar bill on the table before leaving Café 13.

**

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**

Hello back, readers of the series and welcome to you new ones!

**This story will cover the events happening between RE1 and RE2 from Ada, Wesker and Birkin's point of view, with an emphasis on the effects of Wesker's virus and his coping with the new abilities. **

**Feedback, ideas, and/or complaints are as always appreciated!**

**Also, a huge thank you to all people who read and reviewed **_**praemonitus, pramunitus**_**!**


	2. Chapter II

Chapter II

The high heels of her stilettos clicked loudly against the floor of the police department. Ada had entered through the great double doors that were used as the main entrance to the building. An enormous hall stretched out before her and for a second she had the impression to be in a museum rather than in a police office.

Police offices were usually small rooms with dozens of tables stuffed into it, and the rest of the place taken up by paperwork and halfhearted employees who kept on complaining about bad payments and broken air conditioning systems.

Not so here. The walls were decorated with a number of paintings and portraits, one more expensive than the other. A statue of a stone woman towered in the middle of the room, integrated into a fountain. The statue was an eye-catcher no doubt, and certainly distracted unfamiliar eyes from the small reception desk installed into the back of the room, hidden behind the fountain.

Ada took another careful sweep of the room. It did look like a museum. It had been a museum early in Raccoon's history, before the police force had bought the building and transformed it into the RPD. Because Brian Irons, the Chief of police, was such a lover of arts the many paintings and sculptures had not been removed. Instead, rumor went around that the Chief was using a hefty part of the income to maintain and even acquire more pieces of art.

But Ada wasn't here to indulge Brian Irons into a discussion about the different aspects of painting techniques today. Dressed in a unbuttoned blue suit with matching skirt, shoes and a white shirt the Asian spy had come to collect those reports, that should be acquired by a woman named Darleen Evans around 7pm in the evening.

Picking a small name tag out of her handbag she attached it to the blue suit. It read:

_Darleen Evans  
__9731-A33-754P  
__Security  
__Access Level: 3_

In the upper right corner was the white and red Umbrella logo and beneath it a bar code. The ID was an exact copy of the original with the only difference that the picture under the bar code was not Darleen Evans' but one of Ada.

Finished with her preparations she walked past the statue and stopped in front of the reception. She caught the mousy haired secretary nearly winning at Solitaire, but the woman closed the window when she noticed Ada.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" she asked in a high, nasal tone.

"I have an appointment with the Chief. It is an appointment for later today, but due to organizational reasons I was forced to come earlier."

The secretary looked skeptically for a moment, but then shrugged her shoulders, "Just up the stairs and to the right. You can't miss it."

"Thanks." Before turning around she added, "and good luck with the cards."

She didn't get any answer, as the already pale face of the secretary took on an even whiter shade of pale (to say it in the words of Procul Harom), probably afraid that Ada would peach on her in front of the Chief – not that she had any such thing in mind.

Following the secretary's directions she advanced through the RPD building, with each passing corner wondering more what amount of money must have flown into the artwork stored here. Irons had long since turned into an Umbrella puppet, but he seemed to live quite well from the earnings that were deposited on his account on a monthly basis.

Ada reached Iron's office in a matter of minutes. The policemen she met on the way regarded her with an array of emotions. Some nodded courteously, some blandly ignored her, others (the males, especially) eyed her up as she passed them and few and far between simply frowned at the Umbrella logo and turned away.

The door to Iron's office was clearly labeled CHIEF in big, bold letters. Currently, it was closed. But even through the closed door one could hear the heated conversation from inside. Ada did not understand the individual words, but there was clearly a disagreement on something.

Not being the type of person to barge into discussions she decided to wait outside. The voices – or rather one of them (it clearly belonged to a male, but Ada didn't think it was Irons) rose throughout the following minutes before coming to an abrupt halt. There was a muffled answer, then the handle turned and an infuriated young man stepped out of the Chief's office.

He was definitely a cop, she could tell even without the uniform. The man wore a simple grey t-shirt and jeans, but he seemed to be in a good form and the look he gave her as he laid eyes upon her was too analyzing to belong to a simple civilian.

The man's face was a fiery red and he looked infuriated. The white and red umbrella on her name tag was probably the last straw.

"You'll never get away with this!" he accused and pointed a finger at the logo. Ada barely hid her surprise at the brown haired man's antics.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't pull this bullshit on me!" he said, not trying to restrain his temper in the slightest, "I know all the dirty secrets Umbrella has, and if you think you're just getting away like that…"

Ada decided that she definitely didn't want to turn out as scapegoat for reasons that only marginally affected her. This game could be played by two.

"Oh yes, I know what you mean," she said dryly and waved him off, "zombies in Raccoon City, gossip factory's working overtime already. If you'd excuse me…"

She didn't wait for the man's answer who was even more angered by her comment, instead simply passed by him and entered Iron's office, closing the door behind her.

The Chief of police sat in his big leather chair behind an ebony desk. To the left several hunting trophies decorated the wall and a huge painting hung behind the man.

He looked up when she entered, his expression visibly annoyed. Apparently the discussion with the furious officer from before hadn't been very comfortable for him. Chief Irons was a small man of stocky build with a fatty mustache and greasy hair. He was the kind of police officer that enjoyed donuts and had eaten one or two too many.

Ada had already become used to people's eyes being magically drawn to the name tag on her suit. Irons glanced at it briefly, before he looked at her face.

"Wasn't the appointment scheduled for the evening?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes, but I had to come earlier. I hope it doesn't cause any inconveniences," she explained in her best polite tone.

"This entire incident is an inconvenience," Irons said.

"Umbrella is doing everything in their might to speed up the investigations," she said, not exactly sure how far Irons' knowledge reached.

"You're lucky that Umbrella isn't paying me for talking and listening. What STARS claim isn't even so far off the truth, eh? Despite the delusional touch to it? But I'm supposed to shut up and be deaf to all rumors – I don't even want to know more about it."

He pointed to a big pile of folders to the right on his desk, "Take them and go and resolve matters your own way."

Ada took the papers and for a second considered telling Irons about Café 13, the place that change hadn't found yet, because she thought he would like it there. No problems, no headaches. But Ada did not want to be the person who introduced change to Café 13, and telling Irons about the old diner in downtown Raccoon would doom the atmosphere there.

"Have a good day," she said and turned around.

Irons only grunted, "Close the door."

Ada did so and in the loudest way she could manage before leaving the RPD.

--

Two hours later she was out of the uncomfortable suit, which she had changed for a pair of deep blue jeans and a shirt featuring her trademark butterfly on it. Ada was sitting on the couch in her apartment, sipping from a considerably better cup of coffee than those served in the place forgotten by change.

After having retrieved the files from Irons, which had been easier than she had imagined – not considering the brief bump into that man – Ada still had enough time to go home and change, and have a look at the reports herself.

Even though she basically knew what had happened at the Mansion, the details were still unfamiliar to her. If she had to do all the work then she also had the right to admire the results.

Ada opened a folder titled 'Chris Redfield'. The words 'Alpha Team, Pointman' were scribbled beneath the name. The picture of a young man, early twenties with short brown hair and green eyes was attached to the papers via paperclip. Ada frowned.

That was the man who'd insulted her in front of Irons' office! Even though the vivid red color on his face was missing on the picture it was definitely him. Ada snorted, but at least his outburst made more sense now. He was a member of STARS, of the troop that had witnessed what horrors Umbrella could unleash if it wanted; or, if it lost control. She didn't want to envision what would happen if any of the company's experiments leaked in public. And she definitely didn't want to be there, when that happened.

_If it happens. Let's not be a pessimist again, okay?_

Ada discarded the fantasies of mass outbreaks and focused on Chris Redfield's files. The first page was a short resume of his life. Ada skipped it. The next was a quite wrecked piece of paper. It looked like a hastily written report, dated 25th July. The day after STARS Bravo Team crashed their helicopter, leading to the Alpha's deployment into Arklay Forest.

On that fateful morning she had picked up a man thought dead by all, minutes before the Mansion exploded taking all its unsolved secrets with it. Ada began to skim over the file, only picking out some paragraphs.

… _it turned out that the Mansion belonged to the pharmaceutical company Umbrella. Officially it was used as residence for special guests of the corporation, but throughout the mission I realized that workers had been employed on a continuous level…_

…_stumbled upon a survivor from Bravo Team, the rookie medic Rebecca Chambers. After the crash the survivors fled to the Mansion in hope to escape the hideous dogs that have killed Joseph Frost…_

…_It became clear that the monstrosities of the Mansion were the result of secretly conducted experiments lead by Umbrella. Their medical career has only been a decoy for the true face behind the name. An entire lab complex is located beneath the Mansion, accessible through a secret stairwell in the backyard. The underground facility stretches over three levels and houses different laboratory units as well as quarters for the employed researchers…_

…the outbreak was caused by a substance named T-virus. Intended to create the perfect bioorganic weapon, the pathogen leaked and infected the residual workers. Raccoon's cannibal murders can be directly affiliated with this incident…

Ada read on for some time and then stopped at the part that concerned Wesker. She studied it carefully.

…_Captain Albert Wesker turned out to be a double agent working for Umbrella. His absence throughout the entire mission now became logical. In an attempt to dispatch of the surviving STARS members he unleashed another of the company's BOWs, but was impaled as the humanoid 'Tyrant' escaped its stasis tube…_

Not much new information here. Ada had not known Wesker's true intent of releasing the BOW before, and somehow she doubted that the reason was desperation as the Alpha Chris Redfield suggested. She closed the file and took the next one.

Jill Valentine, Rear Security.

…_after we heard a shot Barry and I went to investigate its origins. The only thing we found was the corpse of Kenneth Sullivan, brutally mangled by a man who was trying to eat him. The man did not respond upon demand and instead lunged at me. Even after several warnings to freeze he kept advancing and the only action of self defense was to shoot him. He only died when we hit his head…._

…_the Mainhall was empty, Captain Wesker gone. In worry that he might have encountered one of the creatures Barry and I split up to search for him. We could not risk another casualty after Joseph and Chris…_

…_what inhuman experiments have been performed here? Skinned dogs and living dead, what did Umbrella do, what was their reason for such unjustifiable acts? I found a report detailing the creation of Plant 42, a herb administered with the T-virus, a substance developed by Umbrella that induces rapid growth and heightened agressivity. (The report was lost during the explosion)…_

…_Barry led the way down into the the third sublevel, where we came upon another laboratory full of glass tanks and medical equipment. There we found Captain Wesker, monitoring something on a computer screen. Both the Captain and Barry turned their weapons on me. They are spies of Umbrella…_

…_he sent Barry to lock me up in one of the cells on a higher level. On the way Barry explained that he had been blackmailed by Wesker and had been left no other choice but to cooperate with – the next words 'the Captain' were crossed through – Wesker…_

…_during the ride back home Chris reported that Wesker had died during activation of the Tyrant, whom we could only kill with the help of a rocket launcher from Brad Vickers who had returned with the helicopter. I cannot guess for how long Wesker had already been working for Umbrella before this mission. We never became suspicious during his entire career in STARS…_

Ada closed the report. There were two more, belonging to Barry Burton and Rebecca Chambers, but Ada did not open them. She had gotten an idea of the happenings at the Mansion from these two already. Apart from the STARS' reports there were other files too. Ada recognized two with an Umbrella logo on them, but the big red letters stamped across the paper indicated that they were falsifications (probably added by an Umbrella executive when the memos appeared).

One was titled 'Body Disposal'.

_Special instructions when disposing dead bodies._

_We have new information regarding those "beings". They may appear to be_

_dead but in fact they are able to come back to life. However, there are_

_ways to prevent them from becoming active again._

_Currently there are two known methods to cease their resurrection._

_1. INCINERATION_

_2. DESTRUCTION OF THE HEAD_

_If further methods are discovered, they will be notified immediately._

Ada memorized the words quickly, and couldn't help but wonder whether those methods would work on Wesker too. After all, he was one of them now, wasn't he? Birkin had said he was positive. Wesker had not believed it at first, but sometimes the truth was hard to accept.

The second file was a page out of someone's diary.

_May 16, 1998_

_Rumors going around that a researcher who tried to escape the estate_

_last night was shot. My entire body feels hot and itchy and I'm_

_sweating all the time now._

_I scratched the swelling on my arm and a piece of rotten flesh just_

_dropped off. What the hell's happening to me?_

_May 19, 1998_

_Fever gone but itchy. Today hungry and eat doggie food._

_May 21, 1998_

_Itchy itchy Scott came ugly face so killed him. Tasty._

_4 / Itchy. Tasty._

It was hard to decipher the last words. The writer had not been able to hold the pen steadily anymore and the letters were scrawled across half the page. Ada looked at the date. May. Had they been trying to fight the outbreak ever since? To isolate the infected and contain the virus? Once more she was forced to think of John and wondered whether he had been one of the first to die or one of the last to witness the substance's destructive force.

She placed the pages back into their respective folders and put everything into a briefcase. 11.30 and Wesker hated waiting. Ada could not deny that she wasn't a little bit curious to see how the former STARS commander fared. His voice had seemed unchanged when they had talked. The same amount of indifference, the same taunting tone.

But that didn't have to mean anything.

**

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****The last two documents were taken directly from the game. This is just to give you an idea about the reports Ada retrieved. They will be in Wesker's hands soon, so this is the last time we can openly see them.**

**Next chapter is in production! Feedback welcome to speed up writing process.**


	3. Chapter III

Chapter III

Ada sat in the small cafe of the gas station. It was a remnant of old times, barely making enough money to afford staying opened. Ever since Umbrella had taken Raccoon under its wing, it had also taken control over everything. Slowly and cleverly of course, so that the average citizen did not notice.

Companies and trades that did not bend to its will usually ended like Cafe 13 or the gas station twenty miles off the edge of the city, whose sign was so dusty that you could barely make out its name. Ada hadn't bothered to struggle with the bleached letters.

Instead she was sitting on one of the ripped leather banquettes, propped up an elbow against the wooden table and looked out of the window. Despite the gas pumps in the foreground the scenery encompassed a beautiful snippet of Arklay forest. The pine trees stood high in the background and their branches were waved back and forth by the soft summer breeze.

She sighed and brushed one hand over the briefcase that laid beside her on the banquette. Wesker had not arrived yet. Ada took a glance at her watch. Why should he anyway; she was ten minutes early.

Ada reminded herself that Wesker was a punctual man. Never too late, and rarely early. You could set your watch after him. Ada's went two minutes too fast. She was curious to see whether Wesker would arrive in the timeframe of those two minutes.

Having gone over the files more than once (at home, in the car, a short glance after she had arrived) Ada was sure she had read everything that held some sort of importance. Most of the reports had not given new information, apart from the exact happenings at the Mansion from the STARS' point of view.

She had noticed one thing about them however. None of the surviving members had anticipated their captain's betrayal. Throughout the report (even though it had been written afterwards) the Alphas kept pointing out the disappearance of their commander and presented different assumptions of what could have happened to him. When he had revealed his true intentions down on Sublevel Three in the Gamma Lab where the Tyrant slept in its stasis tank both Jill Valentine and Chris Redfield emphasized their surprise about Wesker's affiliation with Umbrella.

The woman, Valentine, even kept correcting herself afterwards from only writing Wesker instead of Captain. Wesker was a man with a repertoire of incredible manipulative abilities and it showed. Over the course of a few years he had managed to win their utmost trust and make them go through fire for him without asking questions.

Ada had to admit that she held a certain amount of admiration for this trait. Not many people were gifted in this way and Wesker knew to use this aptitude perfectly. For a brief moment Ada wondered whether he had already tried it on her. And if he had, had he been successful?

But had he at all? Ada could not remember to have ever noticed, but neither had STARS until he had stabbed them in the back. In the end they thought justice had been served by no other than his own creation.

But not even the Tyrant, a creature developed to kill without mercy, had managed to defeat Wesker. Unknown to STARS Wesker was still twisting the knife in their back with a macabre satisfaction.

Ada discarded the thought and looked around the café. Apart from herself there were two truckers at the bar who kept throwing her dirty smiles every now and then. Ada ignored them. Instead her eyes wandered over towards the door that remained closed, no matter how often she said 'now' and 'time's over'.

The time wasn't over yet actually. Wesker still had two or three minutes before zero hour, but Ada hadn't yet heard the roar of an engine and certainly he would come by car, wouldn't he? At least transport by car was the only method to reach the gas station if he didn't walk all the way on foot. Which Ada somehow couldn't imagine. People like Wesker didn't go hiking in their free time.

She shook her head. What did she care what Wesker did in his free time?

The door opened and the bell that was attached to it rang.

The man who stepped inside the roadside café gave the origin of noise an annoyed glare, as if that was going to silence it. He wore a black suit with matching tie and shoes. Despite the heat that was killing all living beings outside he didn't seem to suffer under the temperature.

When his eyes locked on her, Ada instinctively tensed. A pair of sunglasses hid his real view from her, but somehow it made her more comfortable than on the day she had seen him without. It made things normal again. This was just a discussion like they had so many before and the incident at the Mansion was merely the latest gossip desperate housewives loved to talk about.

He was at her table with a few long strides and earned some snidely comment from one of the truckers Ada didn't hear exactly. He seemed to have understood the words, but didn't bother with the man. Instead he took a seat opposite of her, and Ada had the strange flash of thought about her and John's first date. The circumstances had been completely different back then, and they had been to the movies, not to a cafe.

"Good day to you too," he said and pulled her out of memories.

"Here is what you want."

She handed him the briefcase, suddenly having lost all spirit for small talk. She couldn't exactly describe the feeling, but from the moment he had sat down she wanted to stand up and leave. The atmosphere around Wesker had never been enjoyable, but now it was something different.

_You're sitting beside a man who should be dead, that's what's wrong. Concentrate on the deal, damnit._

"Not very happy to see me, are you?" he asked, pulling the briefcase over and extracting the folders stored inside.

_No, not really._

"Fancy dress," she noted, deteriorating from his question.

"Ah, yes. I have an appointment with some important sirs later. Sadly, there are not many people handing out jobs to the proclaimed dead these days and I thought I might just as well dress up."

Ada frowned, "You're in talks with one of the companies?"

He didn't look up from the papers. Currently he held Chris Redfield's report in his hands, "Yes."

"Which one?"

Wesker didn't answer instantly. He seemed absorbed in the report. _Or he's trying to decipher the horrible handwriting_, her mind added sarcastically.

Eventually he said, "The one I asked you to research about."

It was not surprising that Wesker didn't call the company by its name. There were only two truckers in the room, but they were both accustomed to avoid using names straightforward. In this line of work talking too much could mean death. A quick one if you were lucky, a slow one if you weren't.

Ada tried to recollect the company in question. Wesker had always kept her busy during their 'deal'. He had never given her assignments that came into way with her official work for Umbrella, but made sure that she didn't have the time to bethink her situation.

The corporation bore the short form of HCF. What exactly the letters stood for was unknown, as the company altered their name corresponding to the business they were currently involved in. Health Cover Fund, Highland Computer Forms, HCF Insurances. Unlike Umbrella this enterprise did not focus on one official role only. They had many little concerns all over the world. Nobody affiliated them with one another, but secretly all the money went into viral engineering.

Despite having the same goal as Umbrella, HCF had not yet reached this extent of madness. They were allowing their scientists to focus on their work without squeezing out results at breakneck pace.

Ada had heard that the payment was quite good, especially for its agents. Since Umbrella was still the leading firm at their business, HCF offered incredible conditions for people with knowledge.

"When is the appointment?" she asked.

"15:00."

"I think I can fit it into my schedule," Ada said.

It was the first time that Wesker looked up. "I think not."

"Excuse me?"

"You have a rendezvous with Chief Irons." He held the papers up suggestively.

Ada scoffed, "That's not how the deal works."

"Don't assume that I forgot about our little secret, Ada. We have come to an arrangement and I think of myself as a man who keeps true to his word."

Ada was about to say, just like you did with STARS, but before opening her mouth, her mind reminded her that Wesker had just been a human when he had cheated on elite troop and that she couldn't afford to get on the bad side of the… whatever he was now.

"And how do you think will they react to a job interview without the interviewed being there? It will hardly leave a good impression on my new employers."

Wesker had meanwhile gone back to studying the reports.

"The appointment I have today will merely define the requirements.They want to see whether the trouble is worth the risk."

"I should really come along. How could they refuse a beautiful Asian spy?" she was trying to relax the atmosphere a little, but Wesker didn't laugh. He never did, regardless how good the joke was.

"They are hardly interested in your looks, Ms. Wong. What the corporation desires it supporting evidence, files, samples. They need knowledge."

Knowledge placed Ada at Wesker's mercy again. She did know the basics and she might even be aware of things that Wesker wasn't. But HCF was not interested in Umbrella's present and former enemies, whom Ada had disposed of. HCF was interested in the biological and chemical knowledge Wesker could offer them in regards to Umbrella's work.

At first it seemed that he had all control over her, but Ada reminded herself of one thing. She was one of the two other people who knew about Wesker's true fate at the Mansion.

"What about the Spencer Incident?" she asked tentatively.

"What about it?"

"According to the media and Umbrella you are dead. Won't that arouse suspicion?"

"Hardly," he said and shrugged. "Diversionary tactic, showing Umbrella what it wants to see. That is it what it was, am I not correct, Ada?" The last words were stressed in a suggestive way simply making her nod.

"Of course." _So he won't tell them. Pull the ace up your sleeve as long as noone is looking._

Wesker suddenly turned his head into the direction of the kitchen door. Ada's eyes followed but the door didn't open, nor were there any sounds coming from it. As she was about to shrug it off a waitress pushed the door open and headed their way. She thought she heard Wesker sigh, but the next moment he was already focused on his reports again.

"What can I get you, sir?" the waitress, a blonde girl in her early twenties asked when she arrived.

"Just a glass of water," he replied, but didn't look up. The girl noted it down on a piece of paper to be sure not to forget the order before she reached the kitchen again and then turned around.

Ada followed the girl with her eyes, then turned back to Wesker, wondering what she should do now. She didn't count watching the man in front her read as an overly exiting hobby.

"When are you going to contact me in regards to the corporation?"

He turned the page, "As soon as I have achieved noticeable results. I will not attempt to reach you on your Umbrella phone anymore though."

Umbrella provided their higher class agents with mobile phones, so they could be contacted at any time, should a spontaneous assignment present itself. She wasn't sure whether the company monitored the calls, but they couldn't take any risks now.

"Going to send me a letter then?"

"You will hear from me," was all he said, before straightening up, arranging the reports in their proper order and pushing them over towards Ada.

"Good day," he said as he stood up and adjusted his suit and pushed the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. Wesker turned around and left the gas station café, giving the bell attached to the door another glare as it rang.

Ada was too surprised about his sudden leave to haste after him. The waitress returned with Wesker's drink, but upon noticing his absence faltered for a second. In the end she came to their table and placed the glass down before Ada.

"Your water, ma'am."

* * *

**Next up: What Wesker has become and how he really deals with it.**


	4. Chapter IV

Chapter IV

Wesker sat in the turned off car that was parked on a layby beside the main road. Before him rose the Arklay Mountains and somewhere on their other side, surrounded by the adjoining forest lay the remains of the Spencer Mansion as well as the rural town of Raccoon City.

Wesker leant back against the drivers seat, took off the sunglasses which he put in his lap and closed his eyes. Apart from the occasional animal sounds there was only silence. He had chosen this place because nobody ever used the road he had driven on and it was far away from any settlement. The closed doors of the car additionally shut out any noises and for the first time in the last three days he could relax.

The omnipresent noises, smells and images had been part of his entire life, but ever since the Mansion Incident - as the phrase had been coined by the media - his life had changed drastically. In whatever way the virus reacted with Birkin's substance it improved various aspects of his being.

The recreational abilities were unique. Wesker had learned to accept that surviving lethal injuries had turned from miracle to a matter of course, it was still hard to believe and even harder to imagine all its consequences..

Apart from saving him from a premature acquaintance with Death, the concoction flowing through his veins had affected his body in other unpredictable ways.

It had refined his sense of taste and smell, had increased his visibility and multiplied his strength. He had not informed Birkin of any of these attributes during their first meeting. For one, because he had only realized several of the effects later and because at that time Wesker had just wanted an answer to one thing, and that was whether he would live or not.

He would live, but he would never see the world with the same eyes anymore. He would never taste, smell and feel it like he had before.

Wesker enjoyed the momentary absence of noise and sighed. Hearing better had its benefits. He did not have to concentrate much on overhearing people's discussions anymore. Being caught unaware was impossible; he was able to hear individuals move and speak who weren't in the same room as him.

Unfortunately, it rarely happened that only two persons were in a room whose discussion he could listen too. Usually he was surrounded by dozens of people - not a single one. It was almost impossible to keep track of each one.

Dozens of voices, hundreds of steps, cars that were incredibly loud, sounds that he hadn't been able to pick up before. Together they formed a wave that swallowed his senses with ease, leaving behind headaches and migraines. Most of the time he could not make use of his increased hearing, because the sounds were deafening.

Taste and smell had developed in a similar way, only that neither had reached such extremes. He could distinguish flavors and picked up a multitude of scents. People who were nervous or afraid had a different odor than relaxed individuals. The phrase 'I can smell your fear' had a new meaning. But as with the sounds he could not yet use the talent the way he wanted to.

_It's probably only a matter of time until you can employ them as you wish. Every learning act takes time._

Wesker looked at the folders thrown onto the passenger seat beside him. There was nothing written on the front, but they held information on HCF, with whose representative Wesker had met not even twenty minutes ago. The meeting had not turned out the way he would have liked, but given the outcome of the previous mission, he wasn't surprised either.

The transaction should have included battle data and samples of the different species in exchange for a position as head researcher with free choice of work for him.

The offer sounded incredibly good of course. He doubted that the company would keep to all of their promises, but a new career in active research with a mile-long head start compared to the other scientists sounded tempting nonetheless, and Wesker had wanted to get away from the pressure Umbrella – particularly Spencer – had put on him lately.

First it had driven him to quit the scientific branch and change to the information bureau of the company, but not even that had helped. Wesker was sick of having to hush up Umbrella's mistakes and clean up after sloppy agents. Working with STARS had been rewarding in some way, but he had noticed too late that he had put too much good will into the troop over the years.

Due to his training and way of leading STARS had grown to the elite team every country dreamed of. It had become harder and harder to guide them into another direction when they unavoidably stumbled across one of Umbrella's sloppiness. They had only listened to him because he had been their captain, the Captain, and because they had trusted and believed in him to such an extent that they would even accept his lies as the truth.

In the end, he had to give up the respect they had for him, the power he held over them – all for Umbrella's sake. Because of Umbrella Wesker had had to give his life.

He remembered Ada's words about the company when they had first talked and how true they were.

'They will never let us go willingly. Rather, they'll tear us into pieces, burn us and then shoot our ash up into space. Then they'll destroy every evidence that we ever existed and wipe our friends' and families' minds of any memories. They have the means to make it happen. I don't think you can help me more than I can help myself, Mr. Wesker.'

She had been very straightforward then, a characteristic he had missed in the last few days. She was being very careful and even though she could mask this feature from normal eyes Wesker's senses had improved. He did not blame her though; he would react the same way.

Wesker placed the sunglasses on the seat beside him, atop the stack of papers. He hadn't felt tired for three days now and every attempt to sleep had been unsuccessful. It probably was another feat of the virus he yet had to learn how to handle. While the serum enabled his body to function without the need of sleep, his mind was still overwhelmed by the many changes that had taken place in such short time.

The virus didn't accelerate processing, or even understanding the recent events. It left Wesker to figure it out by himself while struggling deal with his new powers that were causing him so many headaches.

He was suddenly glad for the lack of sleep, because sleep would have probably brought back the images of that fateful night in more vivid colors than he was able to remember now. It was one of the small satisfactions to know that the surviving STARS were not spared those pictures.

Even though he had been more than displeased to learn of the team's survival (the documents Ada had provided him with earlier that day had been very helpful) he took to the knowledge that while he had found out about their survival, they were not going to find out about his, thus sparing him a lot of troubles.

The RPD had organized a funeral for the deceased members of STARS, the commander of the troop being among them. It strengthened his theory that his existence was only known to a handful of people and Wesker couldn't help but wonder whether Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine with rookie member Rebecca Chambers would attend. He asked himself whether Barry Burton was going to bring his family and the thought made him smirk.

It was tempting to go and see for himself, but Wesker had other matters to attend to. Ada had to be contacted and informed about the new requirements of joining HCF and they had to find a way to actually fulfill them.

Wesker already had a plan forming within his mind. The qualifications basically remained the same as they had been before he had failed to comply with them. Battle data of as many BOWs as possible, tissue samples of various infected species and information regarding Umbrella's other projects.

The key to this bore the name William Birkin.

He had access to all files and samples and could also supply Wesker with the recordings from the Training Facility before its destruction. While not as abundant in battle data as the Spencer Mansion would have been, the Training Facility showed various aspects of behavior from the Eliminator apes as well as the mysterious rebirth of Dr. James Marcus. Since HCF had not clarified from where or when the information should be taken this was just as good as the data Wesker had originally intended to obtain.

A meeting with Birkin would be unavoidable, but Wesker was sure that he could get Ada to lure the scientist out of his lab once more. He remembered the look in Birkin's eyes on that morning. They had gleamed with want, with thirst for more knowledge about the thing he had created.

Wesker shook his head at the thought and discarded it quickly. He had referred to himself as thing far too often in the previous days. He needed to correct himself before he got used to the term.

Through the closed door of the car a scent suddenly reached Wesker's nostrils. It was different from all the smells he had been exposed to in the city. He couldn't say why, but it seemed to have a natural origin, even if he couldn't place that exactly.

He concentrated on the odor, trying to recognize it. It was familiar, he knew it from somewhere. He had smelt it before, that much he was sure of.

Wesker opened the door and from there on, his body acted by itself. He stood up without remembering to intend to do it and closed the car behind him.

The scent was now everywhere, almost visible. It led into the Arklay Mountains. Wesker didn't want to follow it, but his legs set into motion nonetheless.

Afterwards he could never exactly tell when the point came that he lost control over his body completely. It started as a hurried pace towards the smell's origin, then it turned into a jog and later the surroundings passed his vision in a bleary whirl, where the only recognizable structure he could hold on to was the scent.

The only thing he knew when he arrived at the scene was how to place it. It was a scent he had encountered many times before and he remembered how pungent it had been in Spencer's Mansion.

It was the smell of rotten flesh and burst organs.

It was the smell of the victims of the cannibal murders of Raccoon City.

It was the smell that had filled every niche of the Spencer Estate.

It was the smell of death and this realization triggered the virus within him to take over completely.


	5. Chapter V

Chapter V

Everything was a blur and his thoughts came in incoherent intervals. It was not the sensation of being an unwilling bystander to the situation, but he couldn't compare it to anything else either. Sometimes there were flashes of a voice, his voice, but they didn't always make sense.

_-how could it survive?-_

_-billiard balls and a pink umbrella-_

He felt the contraction in his muscles as they tensed for the upcoming assail, but he wasn't able to control his movements anymore. A part of him thought it was good, because he would never be able to react quickly enough on his own, but the bigger LOUDER part demanded to be put in command again.

The putrid smell had invaded his nose and clung to his brain by now. It was everywhere and seemed to form a hazy layer before of his eyes.

The thing in front of him snarled and turned around completely, taking up the unspoken challenge. The man within him called to retreat, to regroup, to get out of its damn way, but it was a bare whisper even overpowered by the creature's growl.

Wesker found himself opening his mouth, but instead of words he emitted a strange sound, a mixture between a groan and a gnarl. It was the sound of want, of need – of hunger.

The part of his mind that was conscious of the happenings panicked. Not now, not here, not him. Birkin's substance…

_-why doesn't it do anything?-_

_Do it do it do it_, screamed the thing within him almost hysterically.

The creature before him shouldn't be alive and by all means, he shouldn't have been able to find it, to even notice its existence. But it smelled so badly, the odor hurt in his head.

A migraine. Just a migraine.

MA-121. The first successful reptilian host for the T-virus. Aggressive, hunts in packs, no territorial characteristics. It was nearly as tall as him, but broader. Its muscles flexed beneath the shimmering scales; it had a set of razor-like teeth and claws the size of an extinct Velociraptor. Deadly, perhaps not with the first strike, but definitely with the second.

The hunter-series didn't show interest in reproduction, thus their attacks were usually aimed to kill a victim with as few swipes as possible. They used their claws as weapon, and even though those weren't infective, they were certainly lethal. The MA-121s chose to only eat their prey when it was dead, so they did not use their mouths on the living victim. The T-virus only entered the new host body after death through the Hunters' saliva, but before it could resurrect the corpse it was already well on its way through the creatures' digestion.

Long claws stretched, predatory eyes were locked on him. But all that didn't matter. It was the stench, the putrefying smell that Wesker couldn't stand. It was driving him crazy, it burned in his nostrils and lungs.

The Hunter charged. It jumped at him frontally, going for his throat. Hunters' attacks were incredibly fast, barely possible to dodge. The man begged for him to finally do something, but the thing insisted on waiting.

His legs were heavy, as if someone had changed them for a set of iron blocks. He wanted to move out of the way, to evade the Hunter's deadly claws, but his body refused to comply.

When the adrenaline surpassed a certain level, the thing within him seemed to be pleased, but still it did not give him back the control. The Hunter leapt, was in midair.

Wesker stood, unmoving. It was nearly upon him – it has you. He could feel its slimy skin on his suit, but most of all, the smell. Unbearable.

It extended its claw to stab it through him, but the smell was just too much. Wesker gripped its paw, pulled and threw the creature on the ground, pinning it there with his own body.

_-get a grip get a grip get a grip control don't –_

It was too late. The thing had taken over completely. It punched the Hunter beneath it repeatedly until the creature's face and body were no more than a pulpy mass. It twisted the Hunter's head with its bare hands and let him feel the satisfaction of the crunching spine. The body under it went limp after a few convulsions. Lines of dark blood trickled down its reptilian torso, coloring the green scales crimson.

The thing kept on strangling the corpse under it, wouldn't surrender to his mind anymore.

_- it's over, it won, it's over -_

But the thing wouldn't let it be over yet, because the smell was still there, almost visible in the air. Putrid, sharp, stinging his eyes and his nose. The world was clad in a haze of fog and blood and smell.

_Go away_, the man screamed.

_No_, replied the thing, _no no no no no no_

And it went on to mangle the corpse under it. A hand was smeared with the Hunter's warm blood – the smell! – and the thing brought it up to his mouth…

_No!_ refused the man this time, _I won't do this!_

_Do it_, commanded the thing and the hand went up right to his mouth.

The stench was suffocating. His eyes burned.

_DOITDOITDOIT- -It's over, I won, it's over_

Wesker felt the bile rise in his throat, leant over and vomited. His entire body was shaking, hurting, and for the first time in the last three days he felt exhausted.

But he was in control again, no matter in what state the body was he controlled. All that mattered was that the thing had gone, that the stench had disappeared and that he was alive.

The Hunter beside him remained dead, small waves of blood still flowing from the many wounds. His own hand was sticky with the liquid, so he wiped it off on his suit, though not all of it went away. He remained sitting on the ground for a few minutes, not really able to do anything or even grasp a coherent thought out of the pool of unnumbered questions and assumptions.

He did not want to think about what had occurred just moments ago. Perhaps it had just been a dream, he had finally dozed off in the car on the layby of the road and this was how the virus affected his sleep. Perhaps it was only a hallucination and he would find out when he woke up in the madhouse.

Perhaps it was real, Wesker thought, as he regarded the Hunter's corpse beside him that was simply to realistic to be a weave of his imagination.

But how could it be here, now that the Mansion lay in ruins? An escape was unlikely, impossible, if just for the sake of mankind. Wesker tried to remember how many of the creatures had been killed during the mission, but couldn't come up with a definite number. He had downed one, STARS another one, he'd encountered one on his escape route, how many had there been at all?

Was it the only survivor?

Had it spread the infection and if so, how many had already fallen victim to the manmade illness?

Wesker studied the Hunter, but was unsure what conclusion to reach. It was unsettling enough to regard the beaten up creature and to think that he was the one responsible for its current look.

With your bare hands at that, his mind added, impressive.

But frightening at the same time. He couldn't say what stage exactly had triggered the virus within him to take over, but he didn't like it at all that the pathogen held such a power over him. It may make him look strong, but he knew that this was a weakness that could get him killed sooner or later if he didn't remedy it.

And how will you do that?

That was the one million dollar question. Umbrella had always put emphasis on strength and aggressivity. It had worked for less intelligent beings, for animals. Reptiles, dogs, apes. But the scientists hadn't been successful in creating a human BOW that had a consciousness, a memory and the power to handle the virus to its own liking. Toying with human genetics was a fairly new project. The Tyrant had been the first real victory in that field, and that at the cost of severe mutations in the host body.

From the results they had achieved until now Wesker couldn't say whether the virus could be suppressed. He didn't even know about the extent of Birkin's substance that seemed to keep it in check most of the time, or the reason why it had failed now.

A meeting with the doctor was absolutely essential, perhaps even more important than retrieving the data for HCF. He had to know his limits before starting a new career or even giving the virus enough provocation to act on its own again.

Wesker could only speculate the reason of the virus' behavior. One theory, the most believable, said that it was the existence of the T-virions in the Hunter's blood that had attracted him. It had been proven in experiments that carriers would not attack each other in normal circumstances. Carriers of the same species that was. Hunters showed no mercy in taking apart human hosts, while Chimeras sometimes even confronted their own kin if they saw their territory endangered. Humans, most surprisingly, assaulted neither of the other BOWs. Researchers explained this by the decaying process the brain underlay.

Wesker rose to his feet. He took another look at the Hunter and eventually bent down to pick it up. He couldn't leave it here after all; it would only need a rat to feed from the corpse and the surrounding area would spawn undead creatures.

MA-121s could weigh as much as an outgrown woman, but to Wesker the weight was nothing to worry about anymore. The virus increased his strength enough to be able to carry ten Hunters at once.

He was about to start walking when he reminded himself that he didn't know in which direction to go. He could barely remember the way from the car to here, much less had he noticed where he was actually running.

Wesker decided to retrace his steps. It would be a slow process, but the only one that was available right now.

The way back took fairly longer than than the first run, but the MA-121 was now safely stored in the car's trunk along with Wesker's bloodstained suit. He entered the car too and opened the glove box on the passenger's side, cramming for a certain object. At last he retrieved a lighter, putting it into his trouser pocket.

That was when his eyes accidentally caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and Wesker froze, feeling just as sick as before.

* * *

**Hello again! Exam time is finally over, so I hope to be able to update more frequently now.**

**I hope you liked the way I made Wesker succumb to the virus. I was always of the opinion that great power can't come without great risks, and before actually being able to use said power Wesker has to learn to control it...**

**Tell me what you think of it. Perhaps you have some own ideas and suggestions about what problems he could face in the future? I'd be more than interested to hear them!**


	6. Chapter VI

Chapter VI

Eight days had passed since the incident. The initial media hype had died down, although every big newspaper still featured a small column devoted to what happened. Gossip rags lived off the rumors and conspiracy theories that went around Raccoon.

The police was busy investigating what had gone wrong with STARS' mission even as Umbrella cleared any of the remaining evidence.

To William Birkin, this was only of marginal interest. Whatever the media came up with didn't bother him much. The real consequences, the aftermath of the Mansion Incident had been on Birkin's mind ever since.

He thought he would have felt disappointment when he had handed Spencer the disk. The data had contained the last twenty-four hours from the Training Facility. Spencer took it from his hand and then dismissed him with a lame wave.

He played an important part in containing the infection. In fact, he did most of the work. Wesker only showed up sporadically. It was his reward. Spencer seemed to regard the happenings at the Facility otherwise. He blamed Birkin for destroying the complex and denied the fact that there was no other choice.

None. Birkin knew it. Wesker had known it. Spencer knew it too,but refused to accept the incredible loss of two facilities in the past few hours. He did not have the right to blame Birkin for the destruction of the Mansion. Birkin was miles away at that time, brooding over his G-virus and looking at the clock every thirty seconds, making bets with himself whether Wesker would get out of there alive and how he would react to the extra vial among the sedatives.

Birkin couldn't remember his reasons to place the additional substance in the box. It might have been a wave of momentary paranoia, it might have been madness, or fury, or worry. Perhaps it had been fear or a mix of all.

What had happened after the incident, that had troubled Birkin greatly. Not the catastrophe itself; its effects. The consequences. He had never thought about such consequences and now he was left to deal with them.

Spencer had asked, "How is the work on the G-mutagen developing?"

Birkin had flashed him a look of sheer horror and had been about to shout _'You can't have it!'_ because the events had developed like Wesker's prediction

'_It's Umbrella's standard method of procedure,'_ his words had been, _'once the person in charge becomes replaceable, they do just that – replace him.'_

It was Umbrella's way of ensuring rapid process. Birkin understood it the moment Spencer inquired on the G-virus' process. It wasn't the first time Spencer had posed this question. It wasn't the first time Birkin told him about it. They had already found the way to perfection. They just needed to walk down the path, and that took time.

However, among all the conversations Birkin felt the invisible knife twist in his guts. Wesker called it the gut feeling. It was a herald of bad things.

Eight days had passed since the incident and his meeting with Spencer. In eight days there had been no word from Wesker, other than the formal invitation to the STARS captain's funeral. Annette found it in the mail and put it on his working desk. She didn't want to hand it to him personally. Wesker's and his friendship ranged back longer than his relationship with Annette and ever since the incident Birkin was edgy, feeling nervous and shouting at people for no reason. Invisible eyes watched him from everywhere. He wasn't good company the entire week and Annette had respectfully kept her distance.

She didn't know about Birkin's real reason of uneasiness, which was probably better anyway. He didn't tell her where he had been at four in the morning on July 25th or why he insisted on wearing turtle neck collars in the middle of summer for the following days.

He didn't explain his reasons for spending most of his time in the archives, looking over old dead-end reports on the early T-virus work.

He didn't let her in on many things, but that didn't mean Annette didn't noticed. She knew something wasn't right and sooner or later she would make him open up to her. She always did and he always succumbed. He would have to tell her anyway. They needed to increase their security measures concerning the work. He had seen that longing gleam in Spencer's eyes when he inquired about the statistics and it frightened Birkin.

Wesker had known this all along and only informed him in the last minute. He could have taken precautions earlier, sped up the process. Now he was faced with the constant fear of Spencer marching into the Raccoon Labs and holding out his hand, saying_, 'How is the work on the virus developing, doctor? Would you mind if I see for myself?'_

Someone knocked on the door to his private office and a familiar blonde head pocked in after he gave the knocker permission to enter.

"Are you finished? It's time to go." Annette pointed at the watch. It was already past six in the afternoon. They had wanted to leave at five thirty. Annette had suggested taking off a day or two to spend with Sherry. Sherry had told her mother that she wanted to have 'some fun time with the two of you' and they had both decided that it wouldn't hurt if they weren't at the lab for a day. Birkin had agreed reluctantly, after Annette had convinced him.

She didn't know what was at stake, that was why she didn't make a lot of fuss about it. If she only knew.

"I'm done here," he said, even though he wasn't. He put the unread folders and maps into his bag and followed Annette out of the office.

"You look tired," she remarked.

"I am. It's been a busy week."

"You hardly slept. You're exhausted. It's good we go home."

They took the two elevators that brought them to the surface and Birkin returned the polite goodbye from one of the guards with a nod. They went to their car, where Birkin handed Annette the bag with folders before settling in the drivers' seat and turning up the engine.

Their house was twenty minutes from here, give or take a few minutes depending on the traffic.

Annette began to rummage through the files on her lap. Birkin glanced over, irritated.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Why are you going through these old reports? God, they're outdated," she said, scanning them over, " 12th September, 1988. Work on the G-virus hadn't even begun at that time. You were still experimenting on her back then." With 'her' she undoubtedly meant Lisa Trevor, the girl that wouldn't die.

"I want to make sure we haven't overlooked something. The missing part is there, I know it," Birkin said. Annette wasn't satisfied with the answer, but she didn't say anything. Instead, the topic changed.

"Will you go to the funeral?" Birkin cringed at the thought. Wesker's funeral was in two days. He was expected to go. Everyone in Umbrella knew that he had been one of the few close to the agent. Nobody knew that they would attend the funeral of a living man though.

"I'm sorry," Annette said, noticing his discomfort.

"It's not that." Should he tell her? He needed to tell her. He needed to talk about it with someone. It was driving him up the walls. The uncertainty. If he could trust somebody, then Annette.

"He's not dead." The relief came instantly.

"What?"

"He's not dead," he repeated, but it didn't feel as good as before. God, Wesker would kill him. He'd crush his windpipe and he wouldn't let go in time again. "He survived." He wanted to stop, but the words kept coming. "When I disappeared on that morning. It was him, he called me."

Annette sat up and looked at him with big eyes, "Albert's alive?" She was one of the few to call Wesker by his first name. She rarely did it in front of him, but when the two of them talked about the former STARS commander she called him by his first name.

"He's in hiding. Don't tell anyone… for your own sake, don't tell anyone. He's leaving Umbrella."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He was injured, that's why he called me."

Get to it already, tell her.

"He's infected."

She didn't say anything, neither did he. They drove in silence for a few minutes, before she said:

"You should go to his funeral. He must be dead by now, this way or that." The words sounded harsh somehow. She was angry with him, because he hadn't told her earlier.

"He's not dead," Birkin repeated. Annette was about to sigh, when he continued, "I made him live."

"There's no antidote that neutralizes all effects."

"No. There's no such thing," he agreed and wondered how to explain it, "The virus is in his blood. Before he took his team into the Arklay Labs I gave him sedatives, so he could collect samples of the creatures. It was part of his order. I handed him a vial containing a serum that momentarily enhances the host's metabolism. It was an early cancelled project, right before the G breakthrough. I don't know why I gave it to him, but I did. He injected it after he was shot by one of his subordinates – he never elaborated exactly – and later…" he trailed off.

"He was bitten," Annette completed.

Birkin shook his head, "Impaled. The Tyrant. He let it loose and it turned on him. The substance somehow took control over the virus and managed it. It slowed down or stopped the mutation and decomposition to some grade."

"How?"

"I can't say. I told him that tests were necessary in order to determine its true nature, but he declined. He was very irritated; the mission must have gotten to him."

"Or the virus did," Annette suggested.

They arrived at their house and Birkin pulled into the designated parking area. Inside, the lights were burning indicating that Sherry was at home already. Birkin turned off the engine and looked at Annette.

"Look, I don't know where he is at the moment, or whether he's still alive at all. But this substance," (he kept forgetting the name. They hadn't really named it in the first place), "I have seen what it did on a T infected host. Perhaps we can use it to get the G virus' mutations under control. It might be the last piece to the puzzle."

Annette nodded, a silent promise to keep this to herself.

"Let's go in," she said, "Sherry's waiting."

They did and no more words were exchanged on the topic. Sherry was watching some kids' episode on television, but jumped as soon as she heard the door rattle. She was in Birkin's arms before he could place both feet inside the house.

"Daddy!"

He returned the hug and placed her back on the floor, "I'm just going to bring those folders down and then I'm all yours, is that a deal?"

Sherry nodded enthusiastically, "Hurry up!"

Annette handed him the bag before taking off into the kitchen, "Don't take too long, William," she said, knowing all too well that his brief routines down into the cellar could take up an eternity.

Birkin patted Sherry on the head, and then turned to the door that led into the cellar. They had converted the basement to a makeshift lab, back when Annette had given birth to Sherry and they had been obligated to stay at home. It was nothing fancy, just the minimal requirements. He would only do theoretical or very basic steps here and take the complicated work to the Raccoon Lab.

Birkin descended the stairs and fumbled for the light switch located at the bottom. He managed to turn the light on and blinked for his eyes to adjust. Closing the door behind him Birkin advanced to put the folders onto the computer desk.

He took one step, then froze.

"What are you doing here?" he asked the man who sat in his armchair. A familiar pair of sunglasses winked in the light above.

* * *

**Muahaha. Ha.**

**Those of you who are interested: check out my profile for a great Resident Evil RPG. When I say great, I mean it.**


	7. Chapter VII

**Thanks to Maiafay for beta reading this chapter.**

Chapter VII

"What are you doing here?"

There was silence, reminding Birkin of their last meeting a week ago. The atmosphere was the same, only the bad feeling in the back of his mind had intensified. Now he knew what he was up against. Or at least, his imagination filled with various possibilities of what he was up against.

"I told you I was going to contact you," the blond said at last, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He rose from the chair and approached Birkin slowly. Birkin couldn't move; it felt as if invisible tendrils entwined his feet.

"How did you get in here?" Had Sherry let him in? No. She would have told Birkin about it. She would have said, you need to go check downstairs, daddy, there's someone waiting for you there. And then: will you come up again soon, daddy? I have SO much to tell you.

Sherry didn't let Wesker in.

"That is of no importance-"

"Yes, it is!" Birkin said. "You entered my house without anybody noticing! They could come in here and… they could steal it all. How did you do it?" He pointed around the room.

Wesker's expression remained blank, unreadable. "I came here. I came here and I waited, and I did not have a glance at any of your research, William. I waited until your return, patiently. My patience is dwindling."

Whether the last sentence was intended as a threat or not, Birkin couldn't say. Wesker stepped closer to him. Only a few feet parted them now. Wesker's nostrils widened.

"Annette can cook?" he asked suddenly.

Birkin gave him a quizzical look, decided not to delve into the subject more than a slight nod.

"You're not here because of Annette's cooking."

"No," Wesker confessed, unconsciously brushing his fingers over the table he stood beside. "No, I'm not here because of Annette's cooking, as enthralling as it might be."

He took off the sunglasses, and turned towards Birkin, "There are some matters that I wish to discuss with you. This is one of them."

'This' was not the fitting word to describe what had happened to his eyes, or what was still happening to them. Birkin stepped closer, uneasiness forgotten. There was barely a trace left of Wesker's natural blue eye color. The iris had turned a sickly red-brown. Burst vessels? His pupils were malformed. They were not round anymore, but had started to elongate into an oval shape. The white of the eye was taking on a yellow color.

"God…" he whispered.

"No," Wesker said curtly, "You are responsible for this."

"Has your sight suffered under the change? Do you feel pain, or… itchiness?" The virus could have prevailed.

"I am itching to know what this means, doctor."

"When has the process begun? You need to tell me everything," he shook his head, "I haven't observed such a development in any of the experiments."

Wesker did not begin to recount. Instead he asked, "Have you been able to find more data on this substance. Every detail is essential."

"I cannot say anything before performing some tests. All the information I have is based off your words. You know this is barely enough to put up a believable theory. I need to have another look at your blood, compare it with the sample from last week. There might have been developments, mutations…" Almost everything was possible at this point. If Wesker wanted his help he needed to let him do his work.

"I found another survivor of the Spencer Mansion Incident," Wesker replied instead.

"STARS are the only survivors apart from you. All personnel has been eliminated by the self-destruction," Birkin argued, "Umbrella has been on the case ever since you stopped reporting. They have a handful of teams turning the Arklay Forest upside down in search for any evidence. The most they found was an escaped MA-39, which they liquidated upon sight."

"They missed one of your beloved Hunters," Wesker said. Birkin's eyes widened.

"One of those got out? But how? They were securely locked away on the sublevels, with the Chimeras and the T-" he didn't finish. Something had deemed on him, "You let them out during the mission!"

"I hadn't anticipated that they would leave the Estate before its annihilation," he explained. He talked about it like a bored reporter doing the weather on the TV.

Birkin felt a little offended, as awry the emotion was in this place. The Hunters had always been something special to him. "You have shot it, I assume."

"No," Wesker said. If it hadn't been Wesker, Birkin would have thought it to be a joke. Wesker never joked though.

He was silent, waiting for the man to elaborate.

"I came upon it incidentally. I was out on the road in the mountains, away from the city. The sounds, the smells, the images… they have been overwhelming ever since the Incident. I needed silence and time to reflect and that was the best place I could think of."

Birkin nodded, urging him to continue.

"It was the smell that attracted me-" Wesker paused, rephrasing the sentence, "-that attracted the virus within me, I presume. It was like a thick mist encircling my mind, leaving me with no control over my actions until the Hunter was dead." Wesker seemed uncertain whether to leave it at that but Birkin's encouraging nod made him go on. "I regained my senses before it could come to the worst."

"The worst?"

"The virus' most prominent feature, William."

Birkin grimaced when he realized what Wesker was implying. "You… _ate_ it?"

"Of course not," he replied, a little offended at Birkin's accusation. "I didn't eat it. I burnt the corpse and eradicated all traces. But I _wanted_ to and this unsettles me. I have reason to believe that your substance is wearing off. Have you researched it? Can you make more?"

For a moment Birkin had an odd contrast of Wesker and an addict on withdrawal in his mind, but he quickly shook off the mental image. This was by far not as easy as drug abuse.

"I'll have to run some tests," he repeated.

Wesker nodded after what seemed like hours. The clock on the wall indicated that only a few seconds had passed.

"But not here," Wesker said. "Not in Raccoon."

"We need the equipment. Some of the devices are absolutely essential. There's no way around them."

"I am aware of that. But I must remain unseen. Dead men do not walk in reality and the population is better left in this illusion. You can make the primary observations outside the city. Based on the results, we can decide on how to proceed."

"What about the histological analysis? The blood results?"

Wesker was silent. He didn't seem to pay the slightest attention to Birkin anymore. Rather, his gaze was fixed on the door that led upstairs and for a second. Birkin feared that whatever stimuli the virus needed to subdue Wesker's mind had been met. Was the T-virus taking over again as it had done in the woods? Was Wesker still in control of himself?

It could be the smell of whatever Annette was cooking. He couldn't smell anything himself, but that didn't mean the man beside was as ignorant. Wesker's muscles had tensed.

"Wesker – Albert – are you alright?" His former colleague didn't react. Birkin turned towards the door, but apart from the wooden installation he didn't see anything out of order.

"What-" he stopped and turned back. Wesker was gone.

Birkin heard thumping steps descending. The door opened and a blond head poked in.

"Daddy?" Sherry asked, looking around the room. She smiled when her eyes fell on Birkin. "Daddy, mum says that dinner's ready. You should come up."

Birkin forced a smile. Had Wesker heard her? "I'll be with you in a second, darling. Just have to sort out some papers." He pointed to the neat stack of files on the desk. "And I'm finished here."

Sherry shrugged her shoulders, flashed him a grin and an "Okay, sure," then thumped her way back up the stairs, presumably to inform Annette of the results of her mission.

As soon as she was gone Birkin turned around, his features grim. "Wesker?" he asked. The man couldn't have possibly left the room in such a short time. Not to mention that the only way out was the door Sherry had come through. Wesker couldn't turn himself invisible, could he?

"My apologies," came the familiar voice from his right. Birkin turned his head and saw Wesker standing next to the armchair again. "I've become quite cautious what concerns witnesses. You understand that I cannot allow your wife or daughter to know of my survival."

Birkin nodded stiffly, especially at the last part. He decided not to tell Wesker about Annette's knowledge. "There is no need to involve them in this."

"No, there isn't. This does not concern anyone but you and me."

Birkin wished Wesker would put his sunglasses back on again. It had been awkward a week before, when his eyes were normal. Now, it was unsettling and it made Birkin nervous.

"I suggest you take some time off your work," Wesker said.

Birkin blinked in surprise, "What?"

"There's hardly a chance to perform your tests if you lock yourself in your laboratory. Take a sick leave. I heard there's a nasty virus going around."

"I can't abandon my work!"

"I never said that. Annette can carry on your research while you are… indisposed. I doubt we're talking about more than a few days. Honestly, William, when was your last holiday? Everyone will understand."

Birkin shook his head, "I can't take a break now. Spencer hasn't absorbed the recent losses well."

"And what results do you hope to find? You've exploited all the data Umbrella has on the G-virus already. This might be the breakthrough we've been craving for ever since we began this. Don't waste this opportunity."

He didn't. Wesker was right, of course. The substance flowing through his veins might be the key to controlling the G virus as well. Birkin reluctantly nodded.

From up the stairs he heard Annette call his name, closely followed by a loud "Daddy!"

"You should go," Wesker said, putting his sunglasses back on.

"So this is it?"

"Yes, for the moment it is. I will get into contact with you as soon as you've arranged everything."

Somebody thumped their way down the stairs. Wesker nodded towards the door and said, "Don't keep her waiting."

Sherry appeared in the doorway, her hands crossed in front of her. She looked at Birkin reproachfully, "Daddy, didn't you hear us call? Mum says that whatever you do can wait until after dinner. Come on!"

Wesker was nowhere to be seen anymore. Birkin sighed, "Alright, honey. I'm finished here. Let's go."

Sherry took his hand to assure she wouldn't lose him on the way and started to go up the stairs. Birkin turned off the lights as he passed and took a last glance at the empty room before closing the door.

He thought to see a short gleam somewhere in the back, but that was probably only a trick of the light.

Sherry said, "Hurry up, daddy!" and he did as she asked.

* * *

**The next chapter will involve various tests that Birkin and Wesker perform in order to find out more about his abilities. If you have anything that you would like to see there, please go ahead and say so!**

**See you in Chapter XIII!**


	8. Chapter VIII

**Thanks to Maiafay for beta-reading. I would be completely lost without you.**

Chapter VIII

"I don't know what to think about this," Birkin said. They were standing at the side of Raccoon's hospital, one of the biggest buildings of the city. Even at night it gave the impression of a beacon in the darkness. The lower levels contained the most illumination. At night, the Raccoon Hospital only took care of emergencies.

"Then don't think about it," his companion suggested, pushing the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

Wesker had contacted him two days ago. Indirectly, that was, through the Asian woman – Ada how? - who had been present during their first meeting. When he left work that evening, she waited beside his car and pushed an envelope into his hand. She only said, "It's nice meeting you again, doctor," then turned and left as mysteriously as she had arrived . Annette wasn't with him that evening. She had gone home earlier, because Sherry needed new clothes and shops closed by the time they usually finished work.

The envelope was unsigned, its only contents a nearly blank piece of paper. The words had been written on a computer, or typewriter, the author keeping his description to a minimum.

_Friday, 9pm. Be at home._

Beside him, Wesker shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"This is home invasion you know," Birkin said, scrutinizing the man. He had been at home on that Friday where Wesker had waited for him. He refused to explain how he managed to enter Birkin's house without anybody noticing. They spent half of the night reviewing the plan Wesker had thought of, adjusting the last details. Birkin had only gotten three half days off – for one thing, asking for a longer time-frame would have been suspicious. Research had just experienced a boom. There were noticeable results again, finally.

The lack of time put them under pressure and would likely mean less sleep for the following nights. When explaining the procedure, Wesker had already incorporated Birkin's timetable, much to the scientist's surprise. How the information had leaked through to him was a secret, though Birkin suspected that Wesker still had contacts within Umbrella, the Asian woman only being one of many.

Wesker shrugged, "That's a matter of opinion." He glanced at the bag in Birkin's hands. "Do you have everything? We should move now."

"We shouldn't do this," Birkin argued. "You mustn't be seen, you said so yourself. Just imagine all the questions if _I'm_ seen. Umbrella will hear of it eventually. They always do."

Wesker grabbed the scientist's arm, squeezing gently in demand. "I won't be spotted and neither will you. I have thought about it, but there is no way around it. We need the technical equipment and I feel better doing it here than breaking into one of the company's labs."

Birkin would certainly feel better doing this in one of Umbrella's institutions, perhaps even the subterranean laboratory in Raccoon. He understood Wesker's reasons though. They had wanted to avoid Raccoon completely, but a number of the basic tests required equipment usually stored in hospitals, or in this case, secret laboratories. Umbrella's labs were out of question because of the vigilant surveillance. They could have chosen a hospital in some other city, but acquiring knowledge of the layout and different shifts would have cost them too much time. Both of them had been to Raccoon Hospital on more than one occasion, for more than one reason. The hospital, like most of the city's businesses, was sponsored by Umbrella. Getting the plans had been no problem.

"Come," Wesker said, pulling at Birkin's arm. "Now."

They started walking towards one of the side entrances. The only official entry during night shifts was the main one in the front, but none of the others were locked.

Wesker led the way, but stopped in front of the door. A huge sign hung above.

'RACCOON HOSPITAL – PLEASE USE THE MAIN ENTRANCE'

Drawn under the words, an arrow pointed into the correct direction.

Wesker gently pushed the door open and after a second, motioned Birkin to follow. One of the main doubts Birkin had had about their plan was how to sneak into upstairs examination rooms without being noticed. Wesker had only smiled and told him not to worry.

The corridor in front of them was only sparsely lit and bereft of any sign of life. The doors to adjoining rooms were closed, and judging by the lack of light from the other side nobody was in there either.

An intersection was up ahead, but Wesker ignored it and simply walked on. Birkin followed after short hesitation, contemplating whether to tell him to pay more attention. If they were caught…

"We'll use the emergency stairs," Wesker said. "The elevator is reserved for personnel during night shifts."

Birkin nodded and stepped through the door that led to the stairs. Moonlight was the only source of light illuminating the stairway. They started to ascend, as silently as possible.

Compared to Wesker, Birkin was as loud as a three-year old. It reminded him of the thumping that always announced Sherry's arrival. He guessed that Wesker's stealth was a result of the years he had worked as a field agent.

The man in front of him stopped without warning, turning his head towards Birkin. He had a finger pressed over his lips and put the other arm on Birkin's chest, pushing him towards the stair-rail.

At first nothing happened and the silence tempted him to ask what was going on. Then he heard it. They weren't the only ones using the stairs. Steps echoed from above. The sounds grew louder with each passing second, indicating that someone was descending. Birkin could soon make out voices. It was a man and a woman, talking about their schedules – presumably doctors, or nurses. Birkin looked up, but couldn't see anything. Hopefully they couldn't either.

He glanced at Wesker, whose sunglasses made it impossible for Birkin to discern any emotion on his face. With nothing else to do than wait, he concentrated on listening to the couple's discussion. Dr. Hamilton would perform a big surgery tomorrow. He had allowed the woman to assist, which she was very exited about. Her colleague congratulated her, then they continued to talk about today's shift.

He was about to ask Wesker if it wouldn't be wiser to leave the stairway. Before he was able to, the footsteps vanished. Birkin heard the creaking of a door. Apparently they had some business on the second floor.

Birkin and Wesker continued. On the third floor, they used a door that led them to a long hallway. It was empty.

"That was close," Birkin said. They proceeded through a number of rooms and corridors until they reached a small examination room. It was windowless and a bit off the main route. Birkin turned the light on when they entered.

The room offered a variety of equipment and devices, starting from surgical gloves to an electrocardiogram. One side was packed with medical cabinets, presumably containing scalpels and all sorts of other accessories. Beside them stood a hospital bed, including fresh covers. The other side of the room accommodated the heavier machinery. Birkin knew some of the devices, though by far not all. Well, he wasn't a doctor and this was the wrong moment to reflect on past job choices.

"Let's start," he said, setting the bag on the floor. "I guess we'll begin with the basic things… you should sit down." The last time he had examined Wesker was a good ten years back. Wesker had picked up a terrible cold – all inclusive fever and qualms – and their first thought was of course been infection. Wesker spent the following days in quarantine until the test results arrived and turned out to be negative. Birkin remembered the relief upon the man's face when he had told him the good news.

"I'll take your blood pressure first. Then I'll also need saliva, hair, urine, stool samples. The entire program," Birkin explained. He retrieved a stethoscope and the gage from his bag and pulled on a pair of sterile gloves. The virus in Wesker's veins didn't seem to be transmitted through skin contact, Birkin wanted to be sure.

Installing the gage on Wesker's arm, he pumped and applied the stethoscope. He repeated the procedure on the other arm.

"What's your usual reading?" Birkin asked when he finished.

"I tend to keep in the normal limits," Wesker said.

"You're by _far_ under that," Birkin said. "I know that athletes can have low blood pressure due to the size of their heart, but this is extreme."

He noted down the value on a paper and Wesker raised his eyebrow. "It doesn't surprise me. Everything seems to have set back after the infection."

"What exactly?"

"I haven't eaten in the past three days for example."

Birkin's mouth formed into an 'o' and he wrote it down on the paper. Then his head shot up, "Wait – where have you eaten last time? We haven't confirmed your virulence yet. You might be infectious."

"I've taken precautions, don't worry. I haven't touched as much as a glass of water in public."

"Good." This calmed Birkin. An outbreak in public; it would have devastating effects. The leak in the Training Facility and Arklay Labs had already cost hundreds of lives. He didn't want to imagine what would happen in the case of mass infection. Especially when the victims didn't know what happened to them. He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. "Any other observations?"

"I haven't slept either. You would know the feeling of lying awake in bed and being unable to close your eyes. My body doesn't tire anymore."

"When have you slept the last time?" Birkin asked.

"After the Hunter Incident," Wesker said. "It was the first time I felt exhausted and could sleep a few hours in a row. The speed and power didn't come out of nowhere, I presume."

"It probably used up a good amount of your reserves."

"It did," Wesker agreed.

Birkin had more questions on his mind, but decided to delay them. They should finish what they had come here for and be gone. He could still ask later.

"I'll need some samples of your blood."

Wesker's gaze implied that he wasn't pleased by Birkin's request. Nonetheless he held out the arm. "I trust you are aware of the importance of secrecy."

Birkin nodded, proceeding to tie the rubber band around Wesker's upper arm. "Annette knows," he blurted out. "I had to tell her." Under his grip, Wesker's arm tensed.

"What does Annette know?" he asked. From his tone it was clear that he was trying to suppress his anger.

"She knows you're alive," Birkin said and took the syringe. He was unsure whether Wesker would still let him draw the blood. "And she knows that it wasn't a simple streak of luck."

"You said your family would remain unaware."

"I could have hardly kept it secret from her," Birkin defended himself. "Don't you think taking a leave from my work would have been suspicious? Or me disappearing in the middle of the night without much of an explanation? God, she's my wife. I don't want our marriage to go downhill because Annette's reading something different into this. She might end up thinking I have an affair."

Wesker said, "I hope she can keep secrets better than you."

The rest went off in silence until Birkin had tissue and saliva samples and six vials filled with Wesker's blood.

"I've taken much. You might feel a little dizzy," he warned.

"I don't," Wesker said.

Birkin shrugged, "Good." He made a note on the paper, "Let's just proceed. Have you noticed any visible mutations?"

"The eyes," Wesker said, but didn't take off the sunglasses.

Birkin noted it down. "Anything else?"

"Not visible, no."

"We'll get to that in a moment. Take off your shirt, then. I want to listen for any abnormal sounds."

Wesker did as asked and put the shirt beside him on the bed. It was then that Birkin noticed the ragged scar stretching across the blond's abdomen. "I'd forgotten about this completely," he admitted. "Do you mind?"

"Go on," Wesker said and Birkin placed a hand on the scar. "You're cold," he said. "Your arms were cold too, but I thought that was a bad peripheric circulation."

"I told you everything reduced to a minimum."

"It will damage your cells."

"No, not quite. I thought so too in the beginning. But I think it has another meaning: it preserves the cells. Heightened temperature encourages virus reproduction. Whatever causes the low temperature hinders the virions to multiply."

Birkin thought it over, then nodded. "You might be right. This is only a theory however. Histological tests will show more."

"Of course they will. Now continue."

"I want to X-ray you for that," Birkin said and pointed to the scar, "I need to check for your internal organs and the healing of your bones."

"Certainly – but later."

Birkin nodded, took the stethoscope and plucked one end into his ears, scanning Wesker's chest with the other. When he was finished he did the same to Wesker's back, sounding the lungs. He couldn't help but notice the scar on the man's lower back. It was smaller than the one in the front, but it affirmed that the Tyrant's claw had passed through Wesker completely. Birkin tried imagining the pain it must have caused, but realized that he couldn't. There was a reason that nobody survived such an injury.

"As much as I can say without more detailed tests, everything is fine. Your heart beats slower, but as long as it functions with the same power there's no need to worry."

"You should note it down," Wesker said and pointed to the paper before pulling his shirt back on.

Birkin scribbled something on the notepad. "I also want to make an ECG. It's not going to take long." The device need for that conducted its task silently with the exception of a finishing beep. Birkin took the results, skimmed over them and placed them in the bag. "I can evaluate this later. We should move to your senses next. Start with the eyes. They seem to have undergone the most changes." He looked up. "You'll need to take off your sunglasses for that."

"They've developed further," Wesker said before removing the shades. Birkin nearly gasped, then he carefully agreed, "Yes, they did."

Last time, the irises had gone from their natural blue to a muddy red-brown mix and the white of the eye began to yellow. The pupils had started to elongate.

Now, Wesker's eyes looked – as Sherry would put it – really gross. The pupils were nothing more than slits, reminding Birkin of a cat or snake. They were framed by a bright yellow segment that gradually turned into a vibrant red. The rest had gone back to white. There was no sign of the once human eyes.

"Damn," he said in awe, for a lack of better words.

"I thought you would be impressed," Wesker said.

"Have they… stopped mutating yet?"

Wesker shrugged. "I know as much as you do. For the past two days nothing happened, so I assume that at least a stage is finished."

"It's remarkable," Birkin pointed out, "What about your sight? Has it changed? Are you still seeing normally?" He didn't even know how phrase the question otherwise.

"I'm still perceiving things the same way, if that's what you meant. The only difference is that my vision has become more accurate and I'm able to see at night."

"Amazing. Let me have a closer look." They moved to one of the bigger devices. It was used to determine visual acuity and contained an appliance similar to a microscope for the eye.

Minutes later they reached the stage of 'can you see this?' and 'what's written there?', which Wesker all passed without problems. They finished because Birkin couldn't find a sheet with small enough letters to continue.

After he noted down the results – he didn't have the normal statistics in mind, but Wesker's certainly exceeded them – Birkin moved over to the light switch. "Stay there," he instructed.

He wrote some letters onto the notepad – A C U G T – then turned off the light. It was so dark, that Birkin couldn't see his hand in front of his face anymore. He turned the notepad around.

"Can you read these?"

"A C U G T," the answer came from somewhere in front of him.

Birkin wrote H G F R on the notepad, this time in the size of his normal handwriting.

"And now?"

"Don't move," Wesker hissed, and his voice was serious. "Silence."

Birkin soon found out why. They weren't the only ones on Raccoon Hospital's third floor.

* * *

**I'm quite sorry for the late update. I'm getting to part where I need to think exactly of what I write as this is the basis for all future stories and references to the virus. I hope you enjoy it anyway. **

**Now I shall try reverse psychology on you: Don't let me know how I'm doing. I don't want your opinions. Has it worked? Review...err... I mean don't!**


	9. Chapter IX

**Thanks to Maiafay for beta-ing, and my deepest apologies to you guys out there for not updating sooner.**

Chapter IX

The next seconds passed in suffocating silence. Birkin didn't dare to move a muscle and kept his breath. The sounds of footsteps came from the main hall, accompanied by two voices. The couple they had barely evaded on the stairs. The walls between them absorbed most of the conversation, so that Birkin couldn't understand what they were talking about this time. It was likely the pair worked the graveyard shift, checking on patients and doing midnight walks through the empty corridors of the hospital.

They passed the room where Wesker and Birkin were hiding without a trace of suspicion. The darkness kept them hidden. Birkin didn't speak until Wesker gave the go-ahead seconds later.

"How did you hear them?" Birkin asked, but corrected himself before Wesker could answer. "Never mind the question; enhanced hearing. I should have thought of that."

That explained why Wesker had been so careless about checking the intersections earlier. He hadn't heard anybody and he might even be able to feel presences.Mystery wrapped Wesker like a shroud.

"Turn on the light," Wesker commanded. Birkin heard him get up from the hospital bed and scanned the wall for the switch. When he operated it, Wesker came close, too close. His sunglasses were back in position.

He wasn't close enough to invade Birkin's personal space, but it still sent a shiver down the researcher's spine. He hadn't even heard the man move.

"They won't return to this floor for the next hours, we should make our move. You can continue with the unspecific examinations later. I presume you don't have roentgen or CAT scanner in your cellar, so we need to use the institution's. The devices are stored a few rooms away. We should get going; early shifts start in three hours."

Birkin looked at his watch in surprise. Two already. How had time passed so quickly? He nodded and started to pack their things back into the bag.

"Alright," he announced with a nod. "We can go. Are you sure there is nobody out there?"

Wesker gave him enough proof by opening the door and stepped into the hall, waiting for him to follow. Birkin did so, but not before assuring himself that they were alone, glancing both left and right. The corridor was empty.

"Come on," Wesker said.

"Not so loud," Birkin whispered. "They might hear us."

"There is nobody here who could hear us."

Wesker was right. On the way to their next destination they neither saw, nor heard anybody. Wesker skillfully lead them through the corridors, first left, then right, then right again, making Birkin wonder how long he had studied the hospital's floor plans. Wesker had been here before on other occasions, but Birkin doubted he remembered the way from then. The one time he had paid the former STARS captain a visit during his stay, he had been more or less chained to the bed, in no condition to explore the building.

Birkin tried to bring back the memory of what exactly had happened. The faint image of a car crash came to his mind – the picture that had made it to the first page of Raccoon Today some years ago. STARS were ambushed by a psychopath who shot their wheel in the middle of Arklay forest. Wesker got away with bruisings and a fractured rib, and one other team member – Birkin couldn't remember the name – broke a leg.

He visited his colleague on the second day after the accident. On one side to see how he recovered, but also to discuss more pressing matters. The memory was suddenly vivid again. There had been an incident regarding the Chimera research team during some tests examining the creature's hostility towards intruders into its territory. The Chimera turned out to be very territorial, killed the staff and discovered the ventilation shafts as perfect method of transportation. As Head Counselor of the Arklay Labs it was Wesker's duty to issue the commands, sign the necessary protocols and decide which teams to send after the lose BOW. So it came that on the evening after Birkin's visit both of them were down in the security room, Wesker supervising the progress of Umbrella's special ops team, while Birkin pumped him full of pain killers and caffeine.

After the Chimera was caught and eliminated, Wesker took one week off both jobs.

A sudden "Are you coming?" ripped him out of his thoughts. Birkin blinked, noticing just now that he had slowed down.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm coming."

"We're almost there. It should be the next door."

It was the next door. The room behind was stocked with heavy machinery: a roentgen, CT, EEG, only to name a few. Birkin noticed the Umbrella logo stamped on most of the devices, but wasn't surprised. The company had helped establish most of Raccoon's business and as the pharmaceutical company it was, had of course financed the better part of the hospital.

"If the instruments here are structured like the ones we use in the lab I should be able to transfer all the data onto a disk later," Birkin said, moving over to a set of computers that took up one corner.

"I want an X-ray of your thorax and abdomen, your back and possibly your head skull if time allows. And a full CT and EEG, those are important."

Wesker merely nodded and positioned himself in front of the devices according to Birkin's orders. The only sound during the examination was the low buzzing of the machines and the occasional tip-tap of commands Birkin entered on the keyboard.

True to Wesker's word nobody interrupted them. Birkin – after throwing suspicious glances at the door every few minutes – could concentrate fully on his work. It took them one and a half hours to run all tests and an additional ten minutes to transfer the data onto a disk.

"That should give us insight into your case," Birkin said after pulling the disk out the computer and tugging it into his pocket. He hit the shutdown button to all devices, before turning towards the exit.

Wesker waited at him beside the door, silent as a stone statue. At first Birkin had felt awkward about it, following by a state of discomfort starting from his guts. Later curiosity replaced it and now had come to the point of remembering that there was nothing out of order with the man's lack of words. Wesker had always been the silent one. He spoke when he needed to, and addressed the issue straightforwardly. When Wesker spoke, he spoke the right words. Over the years it had earned him respect from his subordinates and assistants. He expected the best from the people he worked with and that somehow drove them to do even better than that.

Secretly this talent had earned him a little of Birkin's jealousy too, though of course he had never openly admitted to it.

Birkin sighed. "We should go. Annette will worry."

"It's not unusual for you to be out late."

"No… but working at the labs is something else. She is used to that. This is new."

"Is it?" Wesker cocked his head slightly. "You know me for a good twenty years. I wouldn't classify that as new."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do."

--

Two days later Birkin had evaluated the results and called Wesker under the number he had left him before they parted in front of the hospital. They had decided to meet after Birkin's shift was over, and for once the researcher was looking forward to driving home. The results were beyond his estimation, possibly making Wesker everything the company had ever dreamt of. And that by accident.

Birkin decided that if future tests proved satisfying he would invest more time on researching the substance. He still hadn't looked the name up yet. If he could recreate it and combine it with the G-virus it could be the solution to maintain control over the virus' mutagenic traits. It could allow Birkin to exploit its full potential, instead of worrying himself sick over fixing the genetic sequence.

He smiled to himself, thanking whatever powers had made him grab the vial and put it among the sedatives before the Mansion Incident. He fished out the house keys from the lab coat and opened the door. He could hear the TV in the living room, indicating that Sherry was watching her favorite show. Birkin had never bothered to indulge much into _Smurfs_, but Sherry loved it and wouldn't miss a single episode.

Annette had come home earlier and judging by the smell, was busy in the kitchen. She was the only person knowing of Wesker's improved statistics. When he had arrived home after the hospital she had waited for him in the living room. Of course she had asked. He reminded her of the importance of secrecy, told her about Wesker's reaction to her knowledge. And then he told her about everything else, showing her his notes and portrayed his assumptions about the various abnormal results Wesker had achieved.

They set to work immediately, despite the clock that reminded them of the late – or early, by then? – hour. Annette helped him evaluate the tests, bringing up suggestions and theories of her own. That was one of the reasons why he had agreed on a relationship; she was one of the few – perhaps the only one – who truly understood him and encouraged his work. She was brilliant, worth it.

Birkin passed the kitchen on his way to the cellar, briefly catching his wife's glance. At first a welcoming smile that turned into a serious expression. She knew where he was going, that he was meeting with Wesker down there and perhaps she was a little afraid, because Birkin had confessed where the bruises on his neck came from. She had never been close to Wesker, but unfortunate enough to catch him on some of his bad moments. Before leaving work today, she advised him to bring out the news in small portions, because the T-virus stimulated aggression and they couldn't be sure how well Wesker could control that particular trait.

He turned the knob on the door that led to the cellar, switching on the light as he went. Birkin couldn't prevent a shiver running down his back when he laid eyes upon the person sitting in his office chair. Foreseeable, but still surprising. He hadn't figured out how Wesker managed to get into the cellar yet. Perhaps another change he had not told him about? Birkin shook off the thought. Not even the T-virus enabled a person to vaporize into thin air.

"I have your results," Birkin said, as he approached the former STARS commander. They had cut the 'good day' and 'how are you?' formalities early in their careers, deeming it more important to spend their time on worthwhile research.

"Here," he said, retrieving a disk from his pocket. It was unlabeled and stored in a simple black plastic case. Birkin hadn't wanted to leave it lying around, no matter how unsuspecting it looked. If somebody found it, if it got into the wrong person's hands…

He inserted the disk into the computer located on his work desk, pulling a chair up and sitting himself next to Wesker.

"We still have to do a lot of tests, but there are a few details that are clear by now. Perhaps the most important revelation of all – you are not infectious."

Birkin scanned Wesker's face for any emotions, be it relief, anger, something, but his expression remained blank, the only reaction a silent nod. "I haven't had enough time to research why you haven't inherited this special trait, but I assume it has something to do with the substance. The only way to transfer the virus into another host body is by direct injection, or other exposure to your DNA. However, the tests I've performed with bacteria cultures have proven negative." He frowned, opening a folder on the disk and clicked the file titled '0100'. It was a recording of the interaction between bacteria and virus. "The cells didn't mutate or fuse, how they did in your case. Rather-" he clicked the Play button. "- the virions ate the bacteria to uphold their own survival, before eventually dying."

"They rejected the new host?"

"Yes, so it seems. I repeated the experiment more times, always with the same result. Then I used one of your saliva samples and added the virions. They bonded immediately. Annette came up with the theory that the virus might have fine-tuned to your specific DNA. We didn't have any fresh virus – that hasn't been in contact with you yet – so we couldn't investigate that matter more closely."

"Annette said so?" Wesker asked, adjusting his sunglasses. Birkin frowned.

"She helped me in the evaluation," he explained, cautiously. Would Wesker's hand sling around his neck again? Aggression was one of the points that still needed testing…

"I see," Wesker said blandly. It started to frustrate him, that straightforwardness, that deadness in the other man's voice. It was impossible to judge Wesker, his thoughts, his future actions.

"Go on," Wesker instructed.

"Annette won't cause any problems," he said. "She's been a great help so far, she won't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry about her now. Continue, please."

"I- we, we compared some of your results with the average. I don't think you will be surprised to hear that all surpassed it by far. Your sight, for example, it tops any known recordings, not to mention your ability to see in the dark. The mutation in your eyes – has it remained the same?"

Wesker took off his sunglasses. "Yes."

"As I was saying, the mutation… it goes hand in hand with your increased sight. The human eye isn't devised for such capabilities. We have noticed eye-change in former experiments regarding the T-virus, mostly with animal BOWs. The assumption stands that the virus tried to perfect their senses, but due to its mutagenic nature led to decay instead of stopping at the desired level. However, because the virus in your system is controlled by the substance-"

"-does it have a name?"

"- err, no, I didn't have time to look it up, but as I was saying, so far the substance prevents the negative effects. The same may go for your other senses – audition and smell are far above average – though mutation might only have taken place internally, or not at all."

Birkin closed file 0100 and opened another one, displaying images of brain activity. "Unsurprisingly the virus has also affected your brain, however inverse to past human hosts. The problem with the T-virus always was its fast effect on the host's brain, degenerating it quicker than other parts. The substance is inhibiting most effects of the virus here."

He circled the mouse around a certain picture. "Your brain activity has increased considerably. I assume it is trying to adjust to the recent changes, build out more synapses towards the enhanced areas."

"It has caused me a lot of headaches as of late."

"Understandable."

Birkin paused after that, looking hard at the screen, contemplating whether it was time to move on to a certain picture.

"There is something else I want to show you," he eventually said, searching the folder for a file. He opened 0034 and 0035. Both images displayed the torso of a healthy adult, one from the front and one from the back. If you looked closely there was a slight raise on one of the ribs, a seam, indicating a former fracture, where the bone had naturally healed. The injury was old though, at least a few years.

"I don't see anything wrong with it," Wesker said, after inspecting both images closely.

Birkin nodded in agreement. "There is nothing wrong about it."

There was silence, Wesker expecting an elaboration.

"You would think an impalement trauma would leave some trace, wouldn't you?"


	10. Chapter X

**Thanks to Maiafay for beta-reading -- don't know what I would do without you!**

Chapter X

Wesker's case expanded beyond Birkin's highest expectations. He had taken more blood during their last meeting so he could perform a number of tests, which would reveal more about the virus's powers. Thanks to Umbrella, he had attained every strain of bacteria or virus he wished for without the slightest suspicion. The results were unbelievable. Wesker seemed immune to every illness, no matter how grave. Birkin had infected the blood samples with normal flu. Nothing. Closer inspection revealed that the T-virions pounced upon the intruders and devoured them in a matter of seconds before they could assail the host's cells.

After running the same test with equally weak bacteria, Birkin moved on to more. What he found shocked him. According to the results he received, Wesker was resistant to hemophilia. AIDS. Cancer. The list went on two more pages.

One infection took a very interesting turn, though. A contagion with more T-virus. Injection of small doses of the virus resulted in marginal changes. The substance that controlled the virus in Wesker's system would subject the additional virions to the same treatment. For every virion there was a particle of the substance. He had finally looked up the name: aTv51. It ‚swallowed' T-virus cells, rendering most mutagenic side-effects harmless. When the host needed the virus's additional powers, aTv51 removed its protective coat from the cells and allowed them to function.

A high-dose intake of T-virus – higher than the amount already existent in Wesker's blood – induced the collapse of aTv51. The free virions extricated their captive siblings, ripping the aTv51 cells apart in their rage. Depending on the number of attackers, the aTv51 cells had the chance of mounting a defense, catching stray virions before they could wreak more havoc.

However, these tests only minimally predicated what effects an infection would have on Wesker as a whole, and he first needed the man's consent before testing his theory.

Their next meeting was scheduled for this evening, so Birkin guessed he wouldn't have to wait long for an answer. Today he wanted to test Wesker's reflexes and his reaction to pain, perhaps, if they had enough time, see how his healing metabolism had developed.

The image of the blood-stained backseat came to Birkin's mind, only to be replaced by Wesker's equally soiled uniform. The crimson stain had swallowed the T of STARS, making the big, white letters read SARS.

He remembered the stench. The stench of blood, the stench of sweat and guts, and how the SARS Captain had been able to ignore all of the aforementioned. He should have been unconscious – or worse! – by the time Birkin reached him, yet there wasn't any such development. Wesker was irritated, angry, but he showed no sign of pain.

He still hadn't told him what exactly happened that day at the Mansion, and while the better part of Birkin was curious to find out, he also knew that it would be unwise to force Wesker to remember.

They still hadn't tested the aggression, the virus's most prominent feature apart from the desire to feed. From what Birkin had observed Wesker didn't suffer under the latter, but he had experienced the man's newfound strength himself. He absently brushed at his neck. All signs of strangulation were gone by now, the bruises faded, but Birkin didn't want to risk it again. Wesker hadn't used a fraction of his power to lift him off the ground on that evening and he didn't want to give him a cause to find his limits.

It was one of the reasons why he and Annette had decided to include her into the meetings from now on. She had insisted that he be armed until they had valid results on the matter, but Birkin had strictly denied. If an impalement by a Tyrant hadn't killed Wesker, he doubted a gun would have any such effect, other than enrage Wesker. Which was exactly what they wanted to avoid.

She didn't agree on the two of them meeting alone anymore, not after Birkin had told her of the night after the Mansion. She helped him evaluate most of the tests anyway, she argued, so she could be of assistance during the physical examinations, too. Especially the ones dealing with reflexes and pain. She stressed the latter and would repeat it every time they talked about the subject.

Eventually he gave in: For one thing because he knew Annette wouldn't yield, and because he knew she was right. Umbrella's security protocols stipulated that no scientist may be alone in a room with a subject, regardless whether it was a carrier or not. The minimum group number was three. In case of experiments with live hosts that were subjected to any viral agent at least one security guard had to be present.

And those were the old rules. Ever since the loss of the Arklay Facilities Spencer had intensified the precautions. The number of guards was raised to two. Umbrella installed emergency devices at various points throughout the Raccoon Laboratory. Application of such resulted in the release of Anti-BOW gas. While not lethal for the staff, it attacked the carriers nervous system, rendering them harmless through spasms and momentary paralysis. That way, he employees could be evacuated, while any escaped subject could be returned to its cage by Umbrella's special forces.

The comparison to Wesker might be a bit extreme, but Annette claimed that by scientific definition he was just that, a subject, a BOW. "Don't tell him that." was the advice he gave her. It would be better for both of them.

The meeting today was scheduled for 6pm down in Birkin's cellar. Sherry slept over at one of her friends. She was excited about it, had already packed in the morning. Annette, who finished work earlier, would drive her over. She said she didn't want Sherry present when Wesker came. It was too dangerous. She was right.

He looked at his watch, glad that it was time to go already. He packed his things and left the lab, escorted to the elevators by one of the guards – new security protocols. The men stationed at the entrance nodded a curt goodbye and twenty minutes later Birkin unlocked the door to his house. Annette's car was not in the driveway yet, indicating that she was still on the way with Sherry. They still had ten minutes left before Wesker was due to arrive. Though perhaps, Birkin contemplated, it wouldn't even be so bad if she wasn't present in the beginning. Wesker didn't know about the latest changes and it might be better if he could explain them first.

Birkin opened the door and searched the wall for the light switch. From here he could see into the kitchen and part of the living room. Both were empty, as they should be. However, that didn't calm him. Wesker was a punctual man, yes, but until now he had always been here before Birkin arrived. What if something had happened in the meantime?

Various scenarios flashed through his mind. Wesker losing control. The T-virus taking over. A human carrier, aimlessly wandering an empty corridor. Or worse yet, the beginning of an outbreak. He shook his head and dismissed the thoughts, deciding instead to check downstairs. Perhaps Wesker was waiting already.

He descended the stairs only to find the makeshift laboratory as empty as the rest of the house. From upstairs Birkin heard the clicking of the entrance door. He turned around. Annette was here, good.

It wasn't Annette who had entered, though.

"Wesker?"

Wesker stood in the doorway, pushing the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. He wore a black suit, reminding Birkin of some of the business meetings for Umbrella they had attended together in the past.

"How did you get in?" Birkin asked, glancing at the door. It hadn't been forced open, at least he hadn't heard anything. "You don't have a key."

"Ah, no, I don't. I apologize for intruding, but it is preferable for me not to be seen in public."

"You didn't answer my question. How did you enter?"

"The key under the doormat. The one you left for Sherry in case she loses hers."

Wesker seemed satisfied with his answer and nodded into the lab's direction.

"Shall we proceed?"

"Oh, yes, yes - of course. Follow me. As I've told you last time I want to deal with the enhanced healing metabolism and your reception of pain. We'll perform the tests downstairs. I already prepared the materials."

"Very well." Wesker followed him, closing the door behind him that led down into the cellar. "Is your family out of house today?"

Birkin felt Wesker's glare bore into the back of his head, as if reading his thoughts. "Annette will join us later," he said, trying to bring it across as coolly as possible.

"She will assist you?"

"Only if you don't object."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Birkin immediately moved to the opposite corner of the room, not wanting to face Wesker's gaze. He picked a pair of sterile gloves from the box, putting them on slowly. Wesker had stopped at the entrance.

"How much does she know?" he asked. His voice was as impassive as ever.

"Much," Birkin said. He had supplied her with the necessary information so she could help him perform and evaluate some of the tests after all. "Well, she knows enough. She wants to help… and she won't say anything."

An eyebrow arched behind the sunglasses. "You vouch for that? Ah, but never mind. She will access the information with or without my assent, am I right? I presume you have told her about the risks, too, then?"

Birkin frowned. "The risks?"

A smirk formed on Wesker's lips, and he replied, amused. "The risks that go hand in hand with this little secret operation of course. The ones you should be aware of, too."

Birkin looked at him waiting.

"I'm not speaking about the legal or ethical aspects, those are only relative terms in this line of work. The chance of infection has been rated zero by you and I am certain both you and your wife are well acquainted with the other health issues. What I mean is the risk that Umbrella learns about this."

"They don't suspect anything," Birkin said. "You don't suspect them of suspecting."

Birkin shook his head. "Nobody knows about this. Spencer is too concerned about making up for the loss of his facilities. He asks for results and advancements more frequently now, but that's all. He trusts me."

"He trusts the man who is responsible for the downfall of Marcus's Training Facility?"

Birkin frowned. "There was no other choice! You said so yourself."

"I did and I still have that opinion. Spencer, however, doesn't share it."

"Then it's your fault. You ordered the self-destruction. You were the supervising officer."

"You initiated it."

"I merely did what you said. You have the higher security clearance on that level!"

"And what did Spencer say when you handed him the disk and justified your actions – that you only followed my orders?"

Birkin balled his fist, but said nothing. He knew where this was going.

"Spencer doesn't like to put the blame on dead men," Wesker continued calmly. "He holds you responsible for the destruction of the Training Facility, possibly even the Mansion-"

"- I had nothing to do with that!"

"No, not directly. I'm merely assuming. The fact alone that he calls for you more often and has your work under stricter observation –"

"Those are security measures, you're reading too much into it. How do you know about the changes anyway?"

Wesker waved the question off. "I have my sources. The details do not concern you. I'm only trying to bring Umbrella's motives to your attention. The time when the main objective was scientific progress is long gone. The company suffers from severe financial problems. Granted, they managed to cover up their tracks and uphold their image as Raccoon City's 'guardian angel', but how long do you think they can keep the façade up?"

"What are you implying?" Birkin asked, crossing his arms defensively. Was Wesker kidding him? "That I'm not only responsible for nuking two facilities, but that through my actions the entire company is doomed now?"

Wesker seemed almost amused. It annoyed Birkin. "I never said that, William. I'm not accusing you of anything. Umbrella was doomed from the moment Spencer was the only remaining of Umbrella's three heads. Ashford and Marcus were the scientific minds of the company. Spencer is only interested in the money, not the work."

"How can you say that? Ever since we were put in charge of the T-virus research, we achieved inconceivable results! Just think about the Hunter series, the Chimeras, the G-virus! Marcus was much too transfixed on his leeches to grasp the full potential. Spencer knew about it, and he knew that we were good enough to hit the big breakthrough! You can't deny that. You can't deny what Spencer made us!"

"He made me a dead man."

Birkin snorted, rolling his eyes in anger. "You can't honestly blame him for that!"

"I can and I do."

"You're overdoing it. What transpired at the Mansion was tragic, of course, but if there's anyone to blame for unleashing the Tyrant – when you know about its powers – then it's only you, isn't it? You pressed the button, not Spencer." A small part of his mind advised him to stop just there, but the bigger, angrier part didn't give a damn. Wesker was wrong on this one, whatever way he put it and Birkin wasn't just going to nod and agree.

Wesker was silent, and even though Birkin could only see his own reflection in the sunglasses, he knew – he felt – Wesker's gaze piercing right into him. It made the small part of his mind grow in size, telling him again and again that he'd pushed it too far. Goodbye, William, it was nice knowing you, but don't worry it's Spencer's fault that Wesker kills you; at least you didn't do anything wrong.

Instead of snapping his neck in two, or rendering him lifeless in some other way, Wesker merely said, "You'll see in time what I mean. Spencer was never patient. You'll understand soon."

* * *

**This is one of the last scientific chapters, I promise. For those interested aTv51 means**

**a****nti ****T****-****v****irus, ****51**** is the experiment number under which it was discovered/developed.**

**Have any thoughts/ideas? I'd love to hear them, even put them into the story!**


	11. Chapter XI

Chapter XI

Birkin was about to ask what Wesker meant when the doorbell rang. There was a moment of silence, Birkin contemplating whether to go answer it – surely, it was Annette – or pose his question to Wesker. The reflective sunglasses concealed most of the man's expression, though Birkin still noticed the slight smirk gracing his lips. He was obviously enjoying this dilemma, liked to see him so uncertain about the foundations of Umbrella neither of them had ever dared to question. At least not outright. At least not Birkin. To him Umbrella had always been a matter of course. You didn't ask yourself where the air you're breathing comes from either, as long as it's there.

"We'll continue this," Birkin said, decided. The resoluteness in his voice only seemed to amuse Wesker, but Birkin was already halfway up the stairs and before he could contemplate Wesker's motives already opened the door for Annette.

She looked at him with a smile and entered the house. "Sherry's taken care of. She was so exited about sleeping over that she forgot Miki-"

"Who?"

"Miki. You know, the plush-tiger you got her two years ago at the funfair. We had to turn around and get it, she refused to go without it. That's why I'm late."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry." Wesker's words replayed in his mind. Should he mentioned it to Annette? No, no. No need to worry her with assumptions and conspiracy theories. Just because Wesker couldn't cope with Umbrella's ways anymore didn't mean it affected him. He was happy with the company. Couldn't be happier, in fact. The salary was immense and as one of Umbrella's highest ranking scientists he had a lot of freedoms. Perhaps even the highest ranking, with Wesker not working for them anymore. He was the only one Birkin could think of who had a higher security clearance than him.

"Is he here?" Annette's words were but a whisper. The smile was gone from her face, replaced by a slightly uneasy expression.

"He was early."

The answer made her frown.

"And he…?"

"Yes, he's okay with it."

"Okay, or…?"

"It's okay." Which was an alternate way of telling her to pay attention what she did and what she said. The last thing he wanted was Wesker and Annette get into a discussion about Umbrella's motives and Spencer's own reasons. He could imagine where that would go to and he wished to avoid it.

"Alright, come on. It's rude to let him wait," he said and motioned her to follow. Annette hung her jacket on the clothes rack and fell in line behind him.

Downstairs they found Wesker standing beside one of the tables, inspecting a bottle. It was one of the sedatives Birkin had prepared for the session. When they entered he turned around, putting the vial on the table.

"Good evening, Annette," he said, but his attention was on Birkin. "An interesting choice of equipment."

Birkin frowned, then it came to him what Wesker implied. He went over to where the man stood and picked up the bottle, placing it back to where it belonged. "Just in case the normal one won't work."

An eyebrow arched behind the sunglasses. "Then you intend to use T-affecting substances?"

Birkin gave the bottle a critical look. It was one of the weaker sedatives used to immobilize carriers, so the scientists could perform their research. "It's harmless. We haven't had an incident in two years. No administered creature showed any side-effects. And as I said, I only intend to use it if normal suppressants don't work. The unique structure in your system could repel or simply ignore them. Trust me, it's safe."

"That's a dangerous term to use in your line of work," Wesker said, but left it at that. "But that isn't the only item that made me wonder. Would you care to outline your plan to me?" He cocked his head in Annette's direction. "Either of you?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Birkin said before Annette could even open her mouth. He pointed to the tray where he had just placed the bottle. It contained two scalpels of different size, swabs and compresses, syringes with matching needles and an assortment of small and big bottles and vials. Some were labeled, others only color coded.

"Don't let yourself be scared of these. As we've agreed last time I'll test you on pain perception and regeneration. Don't worry, I will only inflict minimal damage. The tip of a needle, a small cut at most."

"And you prepared equipment that justifies for heavy surgery for that?"

"I don't know how your organism reacts to this. I've never seen something like your unique mutation before. We're not in one of the labs where I can hit the emergency button if anything happens. It's only me and Annette if anything goes wrong and I want to be prepared for every scenario."

After a moment of thought Wesker nodded silently. "We should begin then." He proceeded to unbutton the suit and slung it over one of the chairs. It left him with a black, short-sleeved shirt. Annette gestured him to Birkin's armchair.

"…may I?" she asked with hesitation, pointing at the sunglasses.

A smirk crept upon Wesker's lips. "Of course," he said and removed them.

Birkin noticed the slight freeze in Annette's motion as she took the shades from Wesker. He reminded himself that it was the first time she saw his eyes. When she turned her back to the former STARS captain to place the glasses on the table the uneasy frown on her face was visible.

Wesker's eyes followed his wife's movements. When he noticed Birkin's gaze upon him, the slit pupils turned into his direction. The slight shudder down his spine only confirmed that he hadn't got used to the eyes yet either.

"Alright, let's start, shall we?" he suggested. Annette handed him a pair of surgical gloves and Birkin took a seat in front of Wesker.

"I'm going to test your motoric perception first. Could you hand me the dividers, Annette?" The item she gave him looked like a geometrical compass, only that, instead of a pencil on one side, it had two sharp ends.

"Close your eyes, or look away. Tell me when you feel only one prick, and when two. Can I start."

"Yes." Wesker closed his eyes.

Birkin set the dividers on Wesker's forearm, the two ends only millimeters apart. Annette stood beside him, notepad in hand.

"One."

"Good." He enlarged the distance. "Now?"

"One, still."

The ends were now more than three centimeters apart. "And now?"

"Two."

Birkin glanced up to Annette, who nodded and scribbled down the result.

He expanded the distance once more.

"Two," Wesker said.

He decreased it until it reached the distance where Wesker had first felt different pricks.

"Two."

"Very good. Now the same on your back and abdomen."

Annette noted down the various results. When she was done she headed to one of the desks, picking up a folder and started to browse through it.

"So, what is your judgment, doctor?" Wesker asked, pulling down his shirt again when Birkin was finished.

It was Annette who answered. "Your values deviate a bit from average. " She tapped a finger against the page of the folder. "I've got the normals here." She looked up, one eyebrow raised. "You're substandard."

"Substandard?"

"Yes. Your results are fair enough below average. The difference is probably small enough so that you haven't even noticed. Most of all in the area around your abdomen and lower back…" she trailed off, returned her gaze to the papers.

"It's probably not healed thoroughly yet," Birkin offered quickly, not letting silence intervene. "The damage was enormous after all. Nerves and other pathways still have to reform." He paused, wondering if he should ask. "How long has it been?"

"Approximately a month," Wesker said. "But I don't think it has anything to do with the healing process. The worst of the damage was gone by the time you arrived at the warehouse. It was completely scarred two days later. The week after all traces of scarring were gone too. Everything that could heal healed."

"It might be another trait of the T-virus." Annette suggested. Both men turned to her. "One of its most prominent features is endurance of high pain levels, isn't it? It might be the same case here. Your perception is not as accurate as it should be. Sensing many different pricks on a small surface trigger many signals and thus a high interpretation of the feeling. It's the same with a shotgun wound, only on a larger scale, right? Shots scatter in the body causing more damage and higher intensity of pain, while a handgun bullet pierces only one area, straight."

"The comparison to weapons and their functionality is a little immoderate," Wesker contested.

"But she might have a point," Birkin said, nodding. "When the virus utilized its regenerative abilities on your wounds it also added extra protection. In case of renewed injury the pain would not affect you as much as it did the first time. On the scale of an impalement trauma similar to yours it would only be a matter of seconds of course, but-"

"William, you are aware of what you're saying? In theory you are telling me that my body is continually numbing, is that correct?"

Annette interrupted. "Not necessarily. I don't think it will ever come to such critical extent. The aTv-51 will prevent it, just as it withholds the virus's mutagenic abilities… well, most of them. It controls the virus and directs it according to your physical and psychological needs. It shields your organism against degeneration and too much change."

"And for that I'm most thankful," Wesker said in a flat voice, urging both researchers on. "Can we continue now?"

Birkin's smile dropped, an image of Wesker and Spencer coming to his mind. Wesker seemed almost bored of his and Annette's theories. What did he want if not assumptions and results? Those were the basis, the foundations of his new existence. Why didn't he share the excitement Birkin felt? Even Annette was anxious and brought up possibilities, while Wesker only shot down their theories or kept the blank expression that unnerved Birkin. He wasn't helpful at all.

"Yeah, alright," he said at last, but couldn't hide the discrepancy from his voice completely.

On the other side of the room Annette screwed her mouth and shrugged, returning her gaze to the open folder.

"We can move on to pain perception then," Birkin suggested.

"Shouldn't we clear the sedatives and analgesics matter first?" Annette asked.

"Clear?" Wesker raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem to begin with?"

"We don't know," Birkin said. "I mentioned before that we aren't sure how your system reacts to normal medication, if it accepts it. I would like to know before we start to test pain and regeneration."

"You only talked about small cuts."

"If something goes wrong I want to know what I can give you." He turned to Annette. "Could you prepare the normal one? I think thirteen milliliters should give us the information we need."

Annette raised an eyebrow in surprise, but nodded and moved over to the syringes.

"That's quite a high dose," Wesker remarked.

"I intentionally set it a little bit higher. Experiments on normal T-carriers have showed that the virus absorbs some of the tranquilizer's effects. If I give you the normal dose you won't feel anything. We already have rough estimations from normal tests, I just want to see if they are transferable to you."

Annette stepped up beside Birkin, syringe and rubber band in hand. "We're ready to go. I can take care of this, but I can't find the eye lamp. Do you know where it is?"

Birkin's mouth slowly formed an 'o', then he nodded. "I needed it at work this morning. It's upstairs, I'll get it."

He stood up and Annette took his place opposite of Wesker, who had already extended his right arm and waited for her to begin.

Birkin jogged up the stairs, trying to remember where exactly he had put the lamp. It could only be in his coat or in the bag, but sometimes such items magically ended up in other places.

He reached the clothes rack and searched through the coat pockets. There was no lamp, merely a scribbled note reminding him that he had an appointment with Spencer tomorrow.

Lately, the Umbrella head called him in at least once per week, demanding personal reports and Birkin's opinion on various viral data. Mostly T-strains. Birkin had repeatedly told Spencer that he wasn't the best man to call upon, due to his specialization in the G work, but the old man didn't listen. He would only keep talking about how the company needed to make up for the recent losses and that it was crucial that he hurry with the G virus.

He was already through half of the bag when his fingers closed around something pen-shaped and Birkin pulled out the small eye lamp, pushing the thoughts of Spencer out of his mind.

"_WILLIAM!!"_ It was Annette's voice. Panicked.

He started running.

**This chapter is as of yet still unbeta-ed. I'm in a hurry to leave for a few days and there wasn't enough times to sort out the little grammar/spelling details... I guessed you guys would like to read it the way it is rather than wait another week! As soon as I'm back I'll put up the final version.**


	12. Chapter XII

Chapter XII

Birkin slammed the door open, nearly tripping on the stairs in his hurry. He could see the light still shining in the room and from his position on the stairs nothing seemed damaged. Not that he could discern much more than the floor from here. The fact that Annette didn't call his name calmed him somewhat. It could mean false alarm –

-_or the worst-case-scenario_, his mind added.

Wesker had proven his strength to Birkin before. He had experienced what the man was capable of personally. God only knew what Annette could have said or done to provoke him! There had been enough times when the two of them had disagreed on a scientific basis and Annette had always been stubborn enough to pit herself against Wesker. Perhaps she hadn't even done anything wrong this once… it was enough if Wesker lost control over his powers for a split second –

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, frozen.

"Oh my god…"

Annette was hunched over what seemed Wesker's immobile figure on the ground, desperately trying to feel a pulse. Birkin was by her side within a second, kneeling beside the unconscious man.

"Shit, shit, shit….," Annette murmured. "We killed him! Damn, I knew thirty was too much!"

Birkin shoved her trembling hands away, not really listening to what she said. He felt Wesker's carotids, sighing in relief when he felt a steady pulse beneath his fingers. It was slow, but at last rhythmic.

"He's alive," he said, fumbling for the light in his pocket.

"Shit…" Beside him Annette shook her head in panic. "He's going to kill us!"

Wesker's eyes were barely responsive, the slit pupils no more than a black line against yellow iris. Birkin held a hand over the man's mouth. There was a slight wave of air brushing across his palm.

"He breathes," Birkin said and turned to Annette. "What happened?"

She looked at him as if he was joking for a moment, then the worried expression returned. "I gave him the thirty you ordered and he did the only thing possible of course; dropped like a fly! Hell, that dose would have downed one of the big Tyrants! I just knew thirty was too much, no way that special concoction in his system could have-"

"Wait," he said, eyes widening. "Did you just say thirty? _Thirty_ milliliters?"

"Good god yes, William, thirty! You weren't so doubtful a few minutes ago, even he said it was a little much, but hell, you both overdid it there! Thirty could have killed him in an instant!"

Birkin was speechless, Annette's tantrum barely reaching his ears. "I can't believe you gave him thirty," he said hollowly, glancing at his wife and the unconscious blond in turns. "I said thir_teen_."

Annette stopped dead in her tracks, mortified. "What?"

"Thirteen. I said thirteen. A slightly larger dose than normal."

They were both silent, not even Wesker's shallow breathing loud enough to break the quiet.

"Oh my god…" Annette murmured eventually, her eyes were locked on Wesker, the last color draining from her face as realization struck. "Oh my god."

"Stay calm, ok?" he said, knowing that his voice wasn't half as reassuring as he would have liked. Annette kept gazing at Wesker's unmoving form for another moment. He could see the slight tremor on her lower lip and how her fingers started to shake. Over the years he had learned to interpret it as two things: either she was about to cry, or something frightened Annette Birkin very, very much. She turned around abruptly, clutching her head with her hands.

"We killed him," she said. Her voice was empty.

"Annette? Annette, listen to me…turn around."

She had started mumbling under her breath again, pacing the room. He left Wesker's side and hurried up to her, holding her. "Hey, listen, listen, he's not dead, ok? He'll recover, the virus will help him recover. It'll keep him alive. He's going to be fine, nothing happened."

She looked at him, eyes wide, and Birkin wasn't sure whether she had listened to him at all. "But don't you see! Don't you see?! " she cried. "If he wakes he's going to rip this place apart! It'll be the virus that first resurfaces and it'll eliminate the immediate dangers for its host and-"

"Nothing will happen… he can control it. Just sit down… sit down on that chair, ok?"

Annette struggled free from his grip. "The fuck I will! Don't you remember what he did to you on purpose last time? What do you think it'll be like now? He'll be raging! This… this entire operation was a failure, we shouldn't have done it without proper equipment, restraints, security…"

She trailed off, her shoulders going slack. Birkin eased his grip on her arm, knowing that the fit was over. Annette sighed, shaking her head. "Shit." The word already had another sound to it. It was the last bit of frustration leaving her lips. At least for now.

"What are we going to do with him?" she asked, looking at Wesker.

"He'll be unconscious for a good while. Virus or not, his body needs time to break down the substance." He gave the man in question a quick glance. "We should move him off the ground, though. And definitely observe pulse, heartbeat and the other vital functions."

Annette raised an eyebrow. "You think it's wise to stand near him when he wakes? He might act on instinct…"

"If you don't want to, I can do it."

Annette scoffed and knelt at Wesker's feet. "Come on."

They moved the slack body over to the one couch located in the room. Before laying him down, Annette threw a stack of papers off, cursing slightly as they scattered about the ground.

"I'll pick them up," she said.

Birkin meanwhile proceeded to undo the buttons of Wesker's shirt, exposing the man's well-trained upper body. The chest rose and fell rhythmically, which was a good sign. Birkin grabbed the stethoscope from the nearby table, pressing it against Wesker's skin. The heartbeat beneath was slow, but audible. It lacked in its usual force, but those were the effects of the substance Annette had administered earlier.

Birkin couldn't fail to notice how white his former colleague's skin was. Wesker had always had a healthy tan, spending much of his time outside with his team. The color was gone now, leaving back an alabaster hue. It bore no resemblance to that of a normal carrier's though. He could detect no wounds, no signs of decay or even impurities that could indicate T-activity.

Annette stepped up behind him. She waited another moment, then asked, "Doesn't he claim that… he's been impaled?"

Birkin nodded, turning to his wife. "He has. I've seen it. At least the late stages of the cellular recreation, as I've told you. And the blood on his uniform."

At that he turned his head to look at Wesker's abdomen. He had seen the wound two times. On the night the STARS captain had escaped from the mansion, and later, during the first tests in the hospital. If he didn't know better he could have sworn that Wesker had never sustained an injury in that place.

"But there's nothing left. Not even a mark. The T-virus heals, but scars just like every normal process. I didn't believe him when he said that there's no indication of the wound. Not even Umbrella has the technology to do that."

Birkin smirked. "Oh, it seems they do. They just don't know it. It's because one of their byproducts that he survived after all."

"One of yours."

"What?" He raised an eyebrow in confusion.

She smiled. "You were in charge of that experiment. If it hadn't been for the girl and her adaptation to the Nemesis-prototype you would have continued that research."

"But then there wouldn't be a G-virus."

Her smile faltered. He regretted his words, knowing that she had wanted him to say something else. If not for Lisa Trevor there wouldn't have been a 'them', that's what she'd been hinting at.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She held his gaze for another moment, then turned away. "Don't worry… there's nothing to be sorry about." She sighed. "This will be a long night. I'll go upstairs and make a coffee, you want one too?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I could use one."

She nodded and headed up the stairs, disappearing from his sight.

Birkin took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Not only the incident with Wesker, now this tension between Annette and him too. He massaged his temples, feeling a headache coming up. On the couch, Wesker's chest rose and fell rhythmically, but there was no sign that the former STARS captain had overheard his and Annette's conversation.

Birkin moved over and took out the flashlight. He opened one of Wesker's eyes and shone the light into it. The slit pupil reacted with a weak decrease in size, barely visible. It wasn't much, but at least a beginning. Considering the dose Annette had injected him with, it was remarkable that his reflexes started to return at all. The dose might have been lethal for a normal man of Wesker's physique. It could have sent him right into a coma, or paralyzed his breathing long enough to kill him that way.

He heard Annette turn on the kitchen sink and Birkin asked himself whether it had been a good idea to include her in the program. Moreover he wondered how Wesker would react once he woke up. There were many possibilities, ranging from disorientation and instability to a complete takeover of the virus. If it was the latter, he hoped Wesker regained control before he could do anything to them.

Upstairs the phone rang. He heard Annette walk towards it and pick it up, but she was too far away to understand her words. He looked at his watch in question. It was 10pm, who called at such a late hour? Sherry, perhaps? Had she forgotten her toothbrush at home, or couldn't she fall asleep? Birkin grimaced. Hopefully not. The last thing they needed was Sherry here.

Annette stopped talking with the mysterious caller and in the next minute she appeared on the stairs. She didn't bring coffee.

"Who was it?" he asked. "Sherry?"

Annette shook her head, and her expression was grave. "No. Not Sherry." She looked at Wesker, then at him again. "It was Spencer. He wants you to come."

"Now? Did you tell him I was busy? That it's late?"

"I told him that you were unavailable at the moment. That you'd report tomorrow morning, but he didn't accept that. He said there was something urgent he needed to talk with you about, and that whatever you were occupied with at the moment could wait, but he didn't want to tell me what it's all about."

Birkin snorted. "I can't go now! He probably wants an update on the G-virus again, or my opinion on some experiment. This here demands my attention more than anything else. I won't leave until he's woken up," he pointed at Wesker, "and we assure that he's not suffering from any side-effects."

Annette nodded hesitantly. After a moment she asked, "Do you think he knows?"

"Knows what? Who?"

"Spencer. About him," she nodded into Wesker's direction. "About this all."

Birkin frowned, but shook off the uncertainty. "I don't think he does. Apart from you and me I doubt anyone knows that he survived."

There might be one other person…, he thought, but it was unlikely that she'd reveal them to Spencer… was it? He searched his memory for the woman's name, but came up empty. She was of Asian descent, that was all he could remember. Did she work for Umbrella? Behind Wesker's back? But could the former STARS captain be fooled so easily, a man who'd worked in the information branch himself for so many years?

"You're right," Annette said, interrupting his thoughts. "If he'd gotten wind of this he would have sent a team, rather than ordering you about. It's probably nothing."

"If you stay here, I'll go upstairs and call him just to make sure. Perhaps the whole issue can be solved on the telephone," he offered

Annette nodded, but he could clearly see the reluctance in her move. Obviously, she wasn't comfortable with staying alone with Wesker. Birkin gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I won't take long. I don't think he'll wake so soon."

"I'm not worried about the 'when', rather about the 'how'."

"I'll make it quick. If anything changes, call me." He gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder and jogged up the stairs, heading into the living room.

Dialing Spencer's number, Birkin waited for the man to pick up. The phone rang three times before a throaty voice answered.

_'Dr. Birkin?'_

"Yes. You called, sir. Has something happened?"

_'I require your presence at my office. There are certain issues that need to be discussed.'_

Birkin held his breath. Did Spencer know? Play it safe or ignorantly? "Issues, sir? It's late, I was already-"

_'I've taken the liberty to send a car to pick you up, doctor.'_

Shit. He knew it. He knew something. "With all due respect, Mr. Spencer, I'll report tomorrow morning before work-"

'_The meeting will be short. I suggest you prepare, your drive will arrive soon.'_

The line went dead in Birkin's hand.

"Shit," he whispered, wondering how to explain it to Annette. And to Wesker for that matter.


	13. Chapter XIII

Chapter XIII

"Can I have one of those, daddy?"

Sherry tugged at his sleeve, pointing a small finger at the ice-cream shop on the other side of the road.

"Please?" she asked, looking up at him with eyes she knew he couldn't resist. "I haven't had one in weeks!"

He raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Why, hasn't your mother bought you one just yesterday?"

Sherry's eyes widened and she shook her head quickly. "No, no, no! Mum got me one from the supermarket, that's _totally_ different!"

She glanced at him and the shop in turns, before pouting. "Come on, daddy, please!"

Birkin's expression grew serious and he could see the glint in Sherry's eyes disappear. Taking her hand in his, Birkin suddenly smiled. "Let's cross the street before someone else gets there, then."

Sherry nearly jumped at his decision, her features lightening up again. "Oh, thank you so much, dad, I already know exactly what I want!"

"Oh, I'm sure," he laughed.

Eventually, Sherry got herself a cone of chocolate, hazelnut and strawberry. Birkin didn't want anything, not even after his daughter offered to help him if he couldn't eat it all by himself.

It was beginning of September and Sherry would start school again in a few days. She'd voiced her reluctance at least three times since they had left already, and didn't seem satisfied with Birkin's answer that he couldn't do anything about it.

School, even though she might not like it, he'd said, was the most important thing and the only effort Annette and he demanded of Sherry. He knew very well how she felt, both from her own narrations as well as from talks with his wife.

Learning, in principle, was not the problem. To the contrary – Sherry would literally devour any book she liked and most of them were far above average. He couldn't deny the pride about that. What bothered Sherry were her classmates.The other kids were teasing her, because she had different interests than them. Sherry had never been a very social person, a trait for which both he and Annette were partly responsible for. She preferred to come home after school, rather than meet with friends and turned down every invitation if she could spend the time with her parents.

Sherry smiled up at him, the corner of her mouth covered with chocolate. She pointed at a car parked some way ahead. "Look at that! I've never seen such a cool car!"

He followed her with his eyes and nodded at the sight. "It's quite unusual." The fascination in his voice was more than strained. He couldn't tell the make of the car, but judging by its looks the black vehicle belonged to someone for whom money didn't matter.

He doubted it belonged to _him_, though.

Spencer conducted his observations quietly, without raising suspicion. At first neither he nor Annette had noticed the small changes. The 'new' car of their neighbors. The temporary stand-in for the newsboy. The couple that visited the café with direct view on Umbrella's parking area every day when they finished work.

They were watched, all the time, and Birkin wouldn't be surprised if the ice-cream seller didn't work for Umbrella, too.

Somehow the company had learned of his secret meetings with Wesker. Spencer hadn't commented on anything that night when he had ordered Birkin to his office. He focused the discussion on work-related topics. The completion rate of the G-virus (as always), reports of Umbrella's clean-up crews who took care of the remaining carriers (both subjects and accidentally infected) of the Training Facility and Spencer Mansion, and his opinion on the new Hunter Model, MA-125R.

It was smaller than its predecessor, the 120, with shorter claws and spines on its back. The Raccoon Labs housed two of the individuals and because of their positive results in various tests, Spencer wanted to begin with their mass production.

Birkin had instantly agreed and signed the necessary forms, not so much out of confidence for the success of the program, but to gain more time for his own research. Both for the G-virus and Wesker's special case demanded attention he could only give if Spencer left him alone.

He hadn't seen Wesker in the week that had passed since that night, and apart from a brief goodbye when he had woken up, he hadn't said anything about further contact either, according to Annette. Apparently he had insisted on leaving as soon as she had informed him about Birkin's late meeting with Spencer.

If Wesker knew about the old man's distrust – which Birkin was sure he did – then he would keep a low profile until things calmed down and he could contact him without the risk of getting caught by Umbrella. If the company ever learned about the former STARS captain's survival things were looking grave. Spencer would have Wesker's head for failing to control the situation, but not before analyzing the substance flowing through his veins.

If Umbrella attained the concoction and managed to synthesize it for all its BOWs, then nothing could stop them. Of course it would be coupled with years of work and brilliant minds, but there were enough young and enthusiastic researchers who only waited to achieve their own little breakthrough.

Wesker would end up in a test tube, connected to a control panel that monitored his vital functions for the rest of his life and Birkin would be charged with high treason. He knew what happened to people who played against Umbrella. It was like playing in a casino.

_The bank always wins._

A piercing shriek brought him back to reality. Sherry's hand escaped his, the girl falling to her knees unceremoniously, her ice-cream promptly following. The remaining hazelnut spilled on the street. The reason was a collision with a black-haired woman, who was hastily trying to collect a stack of papers from the ground.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry, I didn't pay attention!" the woman cried.

"My knee!" was Sherry's response, now sitting on the pavement, clutching the sore spot.

Birkin knelt beside his daughter, gently taking her small hands away. "Let me see, honey. Oh there, I see it. Don't worry, it'll be nothing more than a small bruise tomorrow. We'll go home and put some ice on it and it won't even swell."

Sherry's eyes widened, the injury forgotten, "Oh but my ice cream!"

"I'll get you a new one," Birkin assured. "Now come, get up, I'll help the lady here and we'll go home."

The lady, a business woman in her early twenties, managed to drop the just collected pages again. They apparently favored the ground more than the folder they should be in.

"Let me help you, ma'am," Birkin said and grabbed one of the papers. A brief glimpse revealed '_Misconceptions in Modern Media'._

"Thank you, sir." The woman flashed a smile, looking at him from behind her big sunglasses.

Birkin furrowed a brow. Something about her seemed familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. He shook his head and picked up '_Chapter 1: Common Climate Misconceptions'_. Perhaps he'd seen her on one of Umbrella's many press conferences. He'd been present at most of the recent ones, the ones dealing with the Spencer Incident. If she was a journalist, she could have been among the mass of people. And with the big frames hiding the better part of her face, it could be someone completely strange to him anyway. That was probably the case.

He picked up the last pages and stood up. Holding them out to her he asked, "Are you alright, ma'am?"

Brushing one strand of hair behind her ear, she smiled. "I'm fine, sir, thank you." Then she looked down at the melting ice-cream, the smile fading. "Though I'm quite sorry for this little mishap."

Taking her purse, the woman removed a ten dollar bill. She pressed it into Sherry's hand and patted the girl on the shoulder. "To make up for the accident. Get the biggest one."

She turned back to Birkin, taking the papers. "Thank you for your help, sir. I'll have to run now, though!"

Before she walked away she gave Sherry a last wink. "Enjoy your ice-cream, honey!"

With that she was off, half-running to catch the green light at the intersection.

Birkin turned back to Sherry. "How's the knee?"

"It burns a bit… but it's not so bad. Do you think they even sell portions so big?"

"Let's find out," Birkin suggested, taking Sherry's hand again.

"I think this time I want – hey!" She stopped abruptly. "There's something written on it! They'll not take this bill."

Birkin frowned. "Let me see."

Sherry handed him the banknote. "Do you think they'll accept it?"

His heart skipped a beat as he read the quick scribble. It read:

_Friday, 16:45, Raccoon Uni._

Friday? Friday was in two days. One and a half. What was happening at quarter to 5pm on Friday at Raccoon's University? A note from Wesker? A test from Spencer? A trap, perhaps?

"Daddy?"

Perhaps he was reading too much into it. "Here, take this one," he said, giving her a bill from his own wallet. "I'll see if I can get this one changed in at the bank tomorrow. Go ahead, I'll wait outside."

Or perhaps it was just a memo to herself. She might be a student, who made a note about a course, or an exam.

Still, she looked so familiar…

And then the scene suddenly flashed through his mind again. July 25th, four-something in the morning, after the terrible fire at the Mansion.

'_The name's Ada Wong, by the way,' she said._

'_William. Dr. William Birkin," he introduced himself._

He hadn't recognized her instantly because of the sunglasses, but there was no doubt. This was a message from Wesker. He couldn't risk to give it to Birkin himself – Spencer would find out – so he used the Asian woman for it. Clever, but clever enough to fool Umbrella?

Birkin scanned the people around him. Most were seeing to their own businesses, keeping their eyes to the ground, or talking on the phone. But were they really? Or was the man who just passed him reporting to one of Spencer's watchdogs what he had seen? What about the blonde sitting at the café across the street? Sipping at her coffee, throwing sporadic glances at her surroundings, while typing up something on her laptop.

_No, no, don't get yourself down. Don't let it influence you. Keep doing the work, and everything will be alright. They can't do anything to you as long as you play by the rules._

Had these been James Marcus's thoughts too, before his timely end? Birkin hated to think back to that day. It had changed both his and Wesker's life completely. He couldn't talk for the other man, but Marcus's assassination had left a mark on Birkin. Sometimes he found himself reliving the scene, and lately it was him, not Marcus, who stared into the muzzle of the soldiers's guns.

But no, that wouldn't happen to him. Unlike Marcus, Spencer still needed him. Nobody was as advanced on the G-virus as Birkin, and the Umbrella head couldn't afford to lose perhaps the greatest virus the company had ever achieved.

Sherry left the shop, a big grin on her lface and an even bigger ice-cream in her hands. He forced himself to smile. Silently, though, Birkin's mind posed the one question he dreaded to answer:

_And what then? When the work is finished?_

**I want to apologize for the one month break, but it was exam time and preparing for it left absolutely no time to continue the story. However, with summer break here now, I will try to get back to my regular update times of at least once a week and hopefully finish dum fortuna before August starts.**

**At this point I'd also like to hand out a thank you to all people who reviewed this story so far! I haven't been able to answer every review personally, however I'll start doing that again too. **

**Thank you for your continuous support, guys! **


	14. Chapter XIV

Chapter XIV

The street lamps cast out a long shadow before him. It hid in the dark every so often, only to resurface again in the protective lights illuminating the way ahead. The streets were mostly empty, cars only sailing past rarely. Most people were sleeping at this hour.

He walked past a sign that said '_FREE ROOMS, 24/7, in 300m right'_. It was quarter to twelve. The meeting had started at nine and Wesker was satisfied with the terms they had agreed on in two and a half hours.

One: Full access to the database. Two: A handpicked team and free choice about his research. Three: Decent pay and individual working hours.

The price: Samples of the T and G series, one each of every project. The T-samples were no problem. He had supervised most of the creatures' production, and had directed the research personally in the important ones. With the data the company already had, it would be easy to recreate the specimen.

Getting a hold of the G-virus proved to be more of a challenge, but none he couldn't take. Spencer, unknowingly, was helping him greatly put his plan into action.

The key element to the virus was its creator. With the strain Spencer forced upon the doctor it wouldn't be long until Birkin eventually cracked and Wesker would use that moment to his advantage. He only needed to plant a seed in the man's mind and wait till it grew. Knowing Spencer, the Umbrella head would water the seedling himself, until it blossomed in Birkin. The only thing left to do was cut the purty plant and offer it to the corporation.

He would contact Ada Wong tomorrow morning. Sweet talking Birkin into the deal would be her own ticket out of Umbrella's clutches. He hadn't particularly cared about her success in the beginning, but then again, he started to care about a lot of things since the Incident.

Such things included keeping the story of his survival to the minimum of facts. He was well aware that the corporation had had its hands on STARS' reports. That much was clear from the way his contact had started the conversation about the Mansion.

Yes, the Tyrant had swiped at him. He confessed to it. The part nobody needed to hear was that it had snapped his spinal cord and most of his internal organs. Wesker left it at '_a nasty laceration_' and '_the virus is only spread through bodily fluids. The Tyrant itself had no wounds that could cause an infection'._

That was true. He kept to the truth as much as possible through the entire discussion. He also kept his sunglasses on.

He had tried using contacts first, but they weren't able to hide the mutation quite well. It worked for long distance, but not if you were looking a person directly into the eye. Instead he decided for reflecting shades.

Wesker passed _'FREE ROOMS, 24/7, turn right NOW'_ and briefly looked into the alley where another sign flashed to indicate the entrance. The motel was quite run down. Half a dozen garbage bags leant against the wall outside the door. He heard a cat meow, before the tip of its tail popped up from between the bags. Wesker smirked. No wonder that they still had free rooms. Even the cats preferred to sleep on the street.

In front of him – possibly from the next side street – two people were having an argument. He perked his ears to listen.

"…no way I'm doin' this, D!" said the chesty voice.

"'S not like ye had a choice, anyway! You wanted to be part o' us, now be it!" said the second.

"Well, I changed my mind. I'll not be part of this."

"Too late for such a decision, man. You got yourself in this shit alone, now shut your mouth and get it over with."

A third voice spoke next. "C'mon, bro. Don't piss your pants about it."

When he passed the alley they only talked in hushed voices. He glanced over briefly. Apart from the three there were five more men. Some of them paid attention to the discussion of the three, others just stood around. Almost all of them looked up as he walked by. Their eyes said _'keep out of this, buddy'_. He turned back to the main street.

If everything went as planned the transfer to HCF should be done by beginning of October. With any luck there would be a few extra bonuses, but he didn't want to think about them yet. HCF would supply him with the necessary equipment to continue the T-virus research for them, and at the same time he could concentrate on finding out more about the concoction that was flowing through his own veins. HCF didn't know about that, of course. If he could, he'd keep it that way.

The only possible leak was Ada Wong, but Wesker was certain that she wouldn't talk; at least not for the moment. Killing her would ensure her silence, but he had never been fond of that option, if there were others to choose from. And for her, there were. She still didn't know what the virus had done to him exactly, and he could use that to his advantage. She wouldn't dare to speak until she knew what she was dealing with. Until then, why kill her if she could be of help?

"Hey! Yo!" someone called from behind. It was the second voice. Wesker turned around, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the gang, now standing on the main street.

"Stop there, man, and nobody gets hurt."

The owner of the voice was a man of about twenty and strongly built. He wore a leather jacket

with various stickers on it. Wesker couldn't read all of them in the dim light, but one said _bootiemama_ and another _fairytale_ _buster_.

A second man stepped forward. He looked as if his last bath had been a while back (and faintly smelled of it, too) and had a beard that reminded Wesker of Barry Burton from STARS. The blade of a knife flashed in his hand.

"Give us the money and there'll be no problems, alright?"

He could feel a tension building up inside him, but he couldn't really put a finger on it. Wesker ignored it and said, "I don't have money. And you don't want problems."

He had fifty bucks in his wallet, give or take. An amusing thought crossed his mind and Wesker couldn't hide a small smile. The STARS badge was still in his wallet too. Threatening an officer of the law, what would they say to that? Most likely shoot him. Bullets didn't bother him the way they did in the past anymore, but they still hurt and he could do without that.

"Hey, don't get so cocky over there, will ya?" _bootiemama_ said. "It's eight of us and one of you. Odds are against you, if I see that right. Don't make it harder than it has to be, pal. Hand over the money and you'll be on your way home."

Some of the other men walked towards him in a half circle. Wesker wondered whether they would still approach so confidently if they knew what he was capable of doing to them.

"Listen, there's no need for trouble." He fished out a lone ten dollar bill and threw it to the nearest man. "Get yourselves a job and a home."

He turned around and started off again. The hair on the back of his neck stood on edge and there was a strange feeling in his gut. He didn't like it. He had had the feeling once or twice after the Incident and it had never turned out well. As he'd said himself; there was no need for trouble.

"Hey, wait!" _bootiemama_ called. Hurried footsteps caught up. In no time the half circle of men had turned into a full one around him. Wesker stopped and waited for the leather jacket to push through the other bodies.

"Pal, this game ain't as easy," he said once he arrived. "Hand over your wallet, your credit cards, you know the drill, man. Either you give it to us, or we make you give it, yes?" The knife in his friend's hand flashed in response.

_bootiemama_ pointed towards it. "It'll be really nasty, ya know, havin' that in your gut."

"It won't come to that," Wesker said. He didn't move though. The circle around him narrowed. He could smell them all now. The sweat, the dirt, the smell that told him some of them were afraid. It made his heart beat faster and the bile rise in his throat.

Wesker pushed past the leather jacket, between the other gang members. He stopped when the clicking of a gun sounded close to his head. Somebody had turned the safety off.

"No more games. Hand over the fucking wallet or I'll put a big hole right there in the back of your head."

He felt the anger level up at the stranger's words. In a sweeping motion he turned around and twisted the pistol out of his attacker's hands. With his other arm he elbowed _bootiemama_ in the face, making the man stagger back in pain.

Several guns shot up and pointed at him, but Wesker kept his aim steady. The barrel of his weapon was inches away from _bootiemama's_ bleeding nose.

"No more games," Wesker said in a flat tone and tightened his grip around the trigger. "You take your friends and leave this instant or I'll put a hole between your eyes, right there."

_bootiemama's_ eyes widened for a moment, then he backed up to his friends. They stepped in front of him protectively. "Odds are against ya, buddy," he said, trying to stop the nosebleed. "Teach the ass a lesson, CJ!"

CJ, the man with the knife, stepped forward, a smug grin on his lips. The circle around them widened a little, but the guns remained trained on Wesker. CJ brandished the knife swankily. Wesker didn't need a knife to tear out the man's jugular. He wondered what CJ's friends would say when they watched him writhe on the ground in pain, drowning in his own pool of blood. He felt a sudden want to try it out.

Wesker lowered the gun instead. "Don't make a mistake," he told CJ, but stood his ground as the man took another step towards him.

When CJ went for Wesker's kidneys, he drew out of the way with experienced ease. The butt of _bootiemama's_ gun impacted with the man's temple, sending him crumpling to the blond's feet. No more games.

Then someone shot.

--

He woke up to the sound of the Beatles' _Hey Jude_, that was blasting noisily from the radio on the nightstand. He couldn't remember to have started up the device, but John Lennon's voice was soon silenced again.

Blinking away the sleepiness, he noticed that the lights were turned on, despite the sun shining in through the windows. And the TV too. It seemed he woke up in time to catch the 9am news. The weatherman just predicted rain for the entire weekend. The clouds would loosen on Monday and if you could believe what he was saying they'd have brilliant sunshine by Tuesday.

He brushed a hand through his hair, surprised how sticky it was. He really needed a shower.

The weather was replaced by another newsflash. The police was investigating something, but he didn't quite pay attention to it. His hand had not only come back sticky, but reddish brown. He frowned.

On TV the reporter explained that last night it had come to a dispute between two street gangs.

He was still wearing the suit, how odd. The white shirt beneath it had taken on a shade of gray, mixed with some brown spots.

He sat up. Despite sore muscles a nasty headache was coming up. What from? He had limited himself to a glass of scotch yesterday, no more. You didn't get such headaches from one glass of scotch.

Photos of the victims flashed across the TV. None remained on screen longer than a few seconds. He wasn't surprised. The corpses were badly disfigured. He saw a cut throat, swollen faces. Someone had lost his guts about it, quite literally, and he could say with certainty that they showed only the nice cases. The reporter talked about broken bones and snapped spines, but he never got to see those pictures.

He shook his head, regretting it instantly as the throbbing increased. Massive hangover and he couldn't even remember where from. Great way to start the day.

Perhaps if he took a shower, he'd remember. At least the awful smell would be gone. Further inspection revealed that he was still wearing his shoes too.

Sitting on the bed, he unbuttoned the suit and slipped it off. It had a dark stain on the backside and more on the front, but they were dry already. Next followed the white shirt. It had a stain too, but unlike on the black suit, this was not just darker.

It was red.

One of his hands shot to his now bare back, touching where the spot in question had to be.

There was nothing beside more dirt and crusted blood. No wound.

The newscaster reported on the same topic still, now contrasting pictures of the current crime with those from early summer.

_'Is it possible that there is a connection between the recent happenings and Raccoon's famous cannibal murders?'_

_No_, he thought. _That's_ _impossible_.

A picture of two hikers with their throats ripped out. A picture of a man with a beard that oddly reminded him of Barry Burton from STARS. Slit throat.

More comparisons. One small girl, mutilated beyond belief. Then, a man. Early twenties, they said, unidentified. His face was in shreds and so was the leather jacket he was wearing. It had many stickers on it, but you couldn't read them because of all the blood that had soaked through. But he knew that one of them said _bootiemama_ and the other _fairytale_ _buster_.

'_Are they back?'_ asked the news reporter. _'Have the cannibal murders not found an end already?'_

For the first time he looked on the bed. Something inside of him found the sight terribly amusing. Something else found it highly alarming.

He sided with the second feeling. The bed linen was soaked with blood and there was nothing funny about that.


	15. Chapter XV

Chapter XV

Even though he only met her twice in his life before, he knew exactly it was her. From where he stood he could only see her back, and that through the dusty window of the café. She sat alone at one of the tables, taking a sip from her drink.

He took a deep breath, wondering whether he was doing the right thing.

He had waited outside Raccoon's university on friday, quarter to five, like it was written on the ten dollar bill. There was no sign of her – or anyone else for that matter. He waited for half an hour until the swarm of students slowly faded. No trace of Ada Wong or Wesker in that time.

Perhaps he had read too much into it. The woman who had bumped into Sherry didn't necessarily have to work for Wesker and the scribble on the bill could have been a personal memo, if nothing else. He needed to get a clear head again and stop making up conspiracy theories. Umbrella couldn't afford to loose him.

Annette was right after all. He did everything he could do to protect the G-virus, but he couldn't do more than that. It was beginning to show, she said, the fears, the worries. Dark rings under his eyes, insomnia. She said he started to have this tick with his right eye. Whenever he was agitated the eye twitched briefly. Barely noticeable to those who didn't care, but Annette did. She was against this meeting anyway.

'_Wesker is dead',_ she had told him_, 'Let him stay that way. We don't need his help, or his intervention. Look where he's gotten himself into. He riled Umbrella until they lost their patience and got back on him.'_

'_Why else do you think they sent him into the Mansion?'_ she asked and he had to admit that that was a good question.

Annette's answer to it was, _"Because he was a growing nuisance to them, and because he knew a lot. They couldn't have let him go, just because he didn't want to anymore. If Umbrella gets wind of this, William – that you are even thinking about leaving – it'll end up nasty. For all of us.'_

She went to give Sherry a good night kiss after that, leaving Birkin to ponder over what to do.

He decided to go to Raccoon's University, even without Annette's consent. When there was still no trace of anyone by quarter past Birkin was feeling a mix of frustration and relief. Annette would say that his right eye twitched again, but he didn't notice.

Suddenly a stranger patted him on the shoulder.

It was a tall man, taller than him, with brunette hair and a cigar in his mouth.

"Can you change a ten dollar bill, man?" He nodded briefly and pointed behind him. "That drinks dispenser there is only taking coins, and I'm out of coins." He chewed on the cigar while he spoke and moved it from one corner of his mouth to the other.

"It's out of change, I think, and it wouldn't take this one, no matter how much I tried." He waved the note in his hand, glancing expectantly at Birkin.

Birkin shrugged, but took out his briefcase. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

The man seemed satisfied with that. He puffed twice at his cigar, then coughed. "Really ought to give up the smoking, you know. But old habits die hard, eh?"

Birkin only nodded, counting the coins.

"There's someone who wants to see you," the man said and his voice took on a serious tone. He had stopped chewing the cigar.

Birkin looked up, trying to mask the nervousness with confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, tomorrow, if you can fix it in your schedule. Won't take long. Drink your morning coffee at Café 13. They have the best breakfast there, or so they claim. The coffee is really awful, in my honest opinion."

"Who do you work for?"

"Oh, this guy and that guy, whoever has a job to be done. You got a job for me, buddy? If the cash is alright I'll work for you, too."

"Who sent you?"

"That ain't important, at least not for now. You got that change or not? I wouldn't want to waste your time anymore – or mine, for that matter."

Birkin hesitated to hand over the money at first, but then did it and the stranger gave him the bill in exchange.

"Thanks a bunch," the man said and grinned, the cigar stuck between two rows of white teeth. "You won't regret it. Have a nice day!"

With that he turned around – into the opposite direction of the dispenser, Birkin noticed – and disappeared into the crowd of people soon after.

Birkin stood where he was. The confusion showed openly on his features. At least he knew Annette was wrong. There was something going on, after all. A small part of him, the part he'd never acknowledged told him that the something was _big_, and that he couldn't just let it pass by. Another part, the Don't-Play-With-The-Fire one suggested to drop the topic and return to his work. If he gave in to temptation, it could mean the end of his work, his family and knowing Umbrella, his life, too.

Was it worth to risk that?

Birkin took an absentminded glance at the bill in his hand. This time there were to memo scribbles on it, or riddles, or plain directions on how to get out of this mess.

Of course it wasn't worth to risk all he had. Only that he was already knee deep in the game where the stakes weren't 50c coins for drinks dispensers that didn't have change.

Spencer and Wesker were playing the game too, and they knew the rules better than anybody else. Wesker with his poker-face, impossible to tell what cards he had and Spencer with his unnerving questions that distracted Birkin from planning his next move. _'How is the work, doctor?', 'Do we have new results on the virus?', 'It's your turn, Dr. Birkin, let's not have the whole party wait.'_

Marcus had played the game too, some years ago. But the stakes had been too high for him, and his cards too bad.

Had the stakes become too high for Birkin now?

It was one of the reasons why he went to Café 13 the next morning and knew that Ada Wong was sitting at the table by the window, even though he could only see her back. He'd met her twice in his life before, but that was enough to know that she had the same shitty deck as him. Nothing against Wesker's Royal Flush.

He entered the café. She didn't look up from what she was reading – _The Daily Raccoon_ – but the two other occupants did. It was an elderly pair who smiled when he entered, before returning to their talk.

Birkin took two hesitant steps towards the table Ada Wong sat at, then gave himself a mental slap and crossed the rest of the distance at normal speed. He settled on the bank opposite of her.

She looked up from the weather report she had just gone through – by Terri Morales; sunshine for today, sunshine for tomorrow, rain for the rest of the week.

"I'm glad you could make it," Ada said. Her voice had something of a purr in it that reminded him of a cat.

"What do you want?" he asked, straight to the point.

She smiled. It was the kind of smile that had other men melting away, but not him. She wasn't going to get him with such a cheap trick.

"Take Earl Grey."

Birkin furrowed a brow in confusion. She bowed her head into the kitchen's direction. The waitress was on her way to their table.

"Anything I can get you, sir?" the girl asked, letting him know that she had better things to do than serve him, even if it was just sitting on her hands in the adjacent room.

"An Earl Grey tea please."

The waitress jotted it down on her notepad and left again.

"Believe me, I just saved your life," Ada Wong said casually.

"What do you want? What does Wesker want?"

"Straight to the point, are we? Fine then, we'll skip the foreplay. I'm here, because I want to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?"

"I'm sure you've noticed Umbrella's latest… interest in your personal life, Mr. Birkin."

"That's none of your concern," he snapped. "Not yours and not Wesker's. Keep out."

"Oh, we do," she said ever so calmly. "We wouldn't ever interfere in problems that aren't ours. It's just a well meant advice, if you would listen to it."

He was silent. A silent approval for her to continue.

"They'll make their move soon, no matter how advanced you will be in your work-"

"Assumptions!"

She shrugged. "If that's what you would call it. There's already a board of new scientists, hand-picked by Spencer himself. They can recite all of your reports in their sleep, and learned the G-virus's formula by heart."

"That doesn't qualify them as competent researchers. It takes more than that to realize the virus's true potential."

"I won't deny that, Mr. Birkin. But Spencer figured out his own version of potential he wants to see in the pathogen. It includes huge numbers. Money that will fill his pockets, not drain them as it does now."

He didn't have anything to say to that, so she went on.

"You know that he wants results before they're due. He doesn't care about little nit-picks, as long as the virus sells for an acceptable price."

"He'll wait until I have it finished. He knows that it's the greatest invention so far. He can't discard it so easily."

"He won't. But time is money and your project demands too much of both. He'll hand it to younger minds and see if they can handle it better. He did it once, and it worked, so why not try it again?"

He knew exactly what she was hinting at. Where she had the information from though, was a mystery. Not that it mattered at the moment.

"So you had me come here to tell me that Spencer will have me… killed? And that there's nothing I can do against it?" He wasn't afraid, or despaired, but angry.

"Not quite," she said and let a briefcase appear from under the table. "The warning is coupled with an offer."

He almost jumped to his feet. He was having none of this! Annette was right, and he should have goddamned listened to her. If Umbrella ever learned about it!

"I suggest you sit, Mr. Birkin." Her voice was flat, had lost all traces of the feline purr. "Take it as another well meant advice."

He shook his head. "No. Tell Wesker I'm not interested, and will never be. Leave me alone from now on. My entire family."

Ada wasn't impressed, cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I insist that you at least drink your tea, doctor. There it comes. Sit down, and I'll explain your situation to you."

Every coin had two sides. He should have known. If he walked out the café now she would have his head blown off, or his car explode, or his food poisoned.

"Outside are three men watching this place."

There! He knew it, he'd known it all along and still walked straight into the trap. Three men were laying low on the rooftops of the neighboring houses, sniper rifles at the ready, only waiting to pull the trigger.

"Don't worry, they won't harm you, no matter how your decision will be. The only thing I ask of you is to enjoy your morning tea for another ten minutes."

"Otherwise they'll do what? Put a hole in my head? Shoot me in the heart? You're not better than Umbrella." The words were spoken with disdain, almost hate. The hate had his blood boiling and Annette would say that his eye started twitching again.

"They'll do none of that," Ada said, almost resentful. "But if you walk out sooner they won't be able to prevent the spy from seeing you."

The hot blood in his veins froze instantly. "Spy?"

"Spencer has you watched, all the time. I thought you knew that."

"I did." But it was still devastating to have his assumptions affirmed. "Is he armed?"

She nodded.

He could feel the color drain from his face. He shouldn't be here. If he had just listened to Annette…

"Will he shoot?"

"I don't know," Ada said and it sounded honest. "Do you want to find out?"

"No." Definitely not.

"Then stay another while. We'll assure your safety for the efforts you've taken to get here in the first place."

A thought crossed his mind. "Is Wesker here?"

"No." She seemed surprised at the question.

"You keep saying 'we'."

"I do. But 'we' doesn't always include Wesker."

"Who does it include then?"

"The company I'm working for," she said and leant back in her seat. Despite the circumstances, the conversation was flowing nicely. "But you don't want to hear about that, remember? No talks about the offer."

"Oh." Right. He'd refused that before she even had the chance of telling him what everything was about and suddenly Birkin wasn't so sure anymore whether he'd done the right thing. Perhaps because the Don't-Play-With-The-Fire part was slowly realizing that sometimes you had to do just that. Put a fire and disappear in the smoke while your enemies bothered with the flames.

"Have you changed your mind?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Will it take more than ten minutes?"

She smiled. "It will take as long as you want to. You're not committed to anything."

He nodded. "Okay."

* * *

**First off, thank you people for all those fantastic reviews! Dum fortuna has reached the 100 reviews mark and I couldn't be happier!**

**The next chapter will finally reveal the offer... and the reason for Birkin's assassination at the beginning of RE2, for that matter.**

**Keep reading! (And reviewing!)**


	16. Chapter XVI

Chapter XVI

The deal was simple.

"You help us in our endeavors and we help you in yours," Ada explained and made it sound as if it was the easiest thing on earth. He knew it wasn't, and she probably did, too.

"How would you do that, help me? I don't see how your company could provide better aid than the one I'm working for now."

She grinned. "Well, doctor, for one we don't seek to neutralize our personnel."

He furrowed a brow in protest, was about to come up with a fitting retort. But he realized that she was right, in some way. Umbrella hadn't done it only once. Marcus was the poster boy, but there had been many beside them. Birkin knew of some personally, of others only through rumors. He knew that Wesker had been responsible for these kinds of operations sometime in his career before STARS. Spencer always used to call him into his office. And then he was gone for a day or two, or a week, or a month. When he returned there was one less Umbrella employee. It didn't take an eternity for Birkin to make the connections.

"And in exchange you want what? My work? Samples?" They all were after that. After his G-virus. They knew it was perfect, and that it was the most powerful of all.

"No," Ada said softly. "If you decide to think about the offer and maybe accept it, you will have your personal laboratory. You can pick your team yourself and the company will provide you with everything you need. Compared with Umbrella we're a small enterprise. We treasure every researcher. We can't afford to loose a project because it's only half cooked. Our organization stands for quality, Mr Birkin, not quantity."

He waved a hand in disagreement. "That's the standard speech. You're not the first one with such an offer, and definitely not the one who manages to impress me."

"I'm well aware of that, but I wasn't finished. This would have been the standard contract, and by all means, you're entitled to your own opinion about it. But you're not the standard man, if I might say so, Mr Birkin, nor is this the standard situation."

"Which means?"

"That I haven't told you about your trump card yet."

The mental image was there again, clear before his eyes. A dim lit room, filled with smoke from cigarettes that weren't there. A round table with four chairs stood in the middle. One was empty. In the others sat Wesker, Spencer and himself, playing the game where the stakes were as high as a life.

He saw that scene often lately, and every time he looked into his cards they were worse. He couldn't tell what Spencer had, or Wesker for that matter, but his were bad. And sometimes he would glance to the empty seat beside him and wonder what it had felt like for James Marcus. When Spencer had told him 'Game Over.'

"What trump card?" he asked.

"Your own doing. Your creation."

"The G-virus? How?"

She smiled as if she had known what he was going to say. "Not that."

"What do you mean, then?" He made a mental list of all the projects he had been involved in or still was, but there was nothing that could pass as a trump card. Could she possibly refer to the Hunter series? The Tyrant? But there was nothing special about them, at least not anymore.

"He'll guarantee your success. He said that if you agree, he will make sure that nobody lays hands on your virus, if you don't want to."

That was the point when Birkin thought he found the catch of the deal.

"Wesker."

She nodded.

"Why?" It was absurd. Why would Wesker do something like that? If Birkin had learned anything about the man in the twenty years they had worked together it was that Wesker was only loyal to Wesker. He didn't quite believe such a change in ethnicity and there was no other explanation for it. Wesker wouldn't do something like that for their friendship, or because he thought he owed Birkin.

So what was it that Wesker wanted? Surely, there was a purpose in this? There always was, where Wesker was concerned.

"If I knew things like that, sir, I wouldn't be sitting here with you," Ada said and tapped a long finger against her watch. "The ten minutes are over, by the way."

Birkin blinked in surprise, glancing at his own watch. How had time passed so quickly? Ada waited patiently for his decision.

"I want to talk with Wesker personally," he declared.

Ada giggled. It probably sounded like demanding a glass of water in the middle of the desert. Essential, but hardly possible. "I don't know about you, Mr Birkin, but I haven't seen Wesker ever since that night. I don't think you'll have more of a chance than me, if _he_ doesn't want to talk with you personally."

Birkin raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything to that. Instead he asked, "How can you deliver his offer then, if you haven't seen him?"

"He contacted me by phone," Ada said plainly.

"Can you give me his number then?"

"Of course," she scoffed. "As if he's ever using the same number… I told you Mr Birkin, the only way to talk to him – as of this time – is to wait for him to talk to you."

"You can't expect me to say yes under such circumstances." He crossed his arms to prove his point.

"I never wanted that," she said, but in a calm voice. She wasn't seeking arguments. "I advised you to stay ten more minutes and you did – which I'm grateful for. Imagine the mess outside if you hadn't. The media would be all over us and though this place could use some attention, I doubt one of that kind would be helpful."

"Then it's over? I can go?"

"If you want to."

He hesitated. "And what about Wesker?"

"I'm sure he'll get over it."

Oh, he was sure of that too. He wasn't worried about Wesker in person. He was worried about how Wesker would react when he learned about Birkin's decision. The marks around his throat were long since gone, but they stayed a reminder of what the man was capable of doing.

Birkin pulled out his wallet and put the money for his tea – still untouched – and Ada's coffee on the table. Then he got to his feet.

"I should probably go now."

Ada nodded. Her voice had that feline purr again. "It was a nice chat, Mr Birkin. Thank you for listening."

He turned around, heading for the exit. Then he stopped, perking his head into her direction. Ada was reading the newspaper. For just a moment, the scene seemed as if someone had turned back time and he had just come in.

Birkin went back to her table.

"What happens if I change my mind?" He wouldn't. But just in case.

Ada looked up from '_Gang Members Brutally Murdered'_. She pressed a small visiting card into his hand.

"Have a nice day, Mr Birkin."

On the way out, he studied the card. It was blank, except for a seven-digit number printed on one side.

Birkin shook his head and tucked the card into one of his pockets.

--

"I don't trust her." Annette paced the room. She started ten minutes ago and if she continued that way they could forget the carpet. "I don't trust either of them, for that matter."

Either of them meaning Ada Wong and Wesker. Annette had voiced her dislike for the deal the moment he had told her of it.

"No, we're not doing this. It's too dangerous. They just want to exploit the situation, what with Spencer and Umbrella and everything. I can feel it, William." She momentarily stopped in her pacing, and looked at him. Her eyes didn't twitch, but Annette Birkin was as unnerved as him. "Something's awfully wrong with this entire situation. _Horribly_ wrong."

She was right, of course. While Wesker made tempting offers, Spencer urged him to advance on the G-virus. He had been working three days in a row, only awake due to the caffeine pills he'd taken some while ago. It was the first time he had come home and the first time that they could talk about the recent events in privacy. Annette had taken off two days – someone had to stay with Sherry.

"I did a bit of research on my own," Annette explained. He nodded wearily, rubbing at his eyes.

"I know somebody from the security division, so I asked them for a favor. And guess what I came up with…" Her eyes were gleaming with excitement.

"What did you find?"

There was no need for further prompting. Annette laid out a thick folder before him.

"Your Ada Wong. Umbrella had files on her. And you know why they had files on her, William? Because Ada Wong is working for Umbrella, and not some other mysterious organization."

She tapped her finger against the mug shot of Ada's face.

"Told you there's something shady about her. About all of this. I think Umbrella wants to test you. There's no company at all. No, it's an order from Spencer. He sent her, staged everything. The fake contacts, talks about this 'offer'. He wants to see if you're still loyal to Umbrella."

Birkin shook his head and massaged his temples. "Annette," he said and waited to get her attention. It was useless trying to talk her out of it if she wasn't even listening. "Slow down."

"No, this time I won't, William." She crossed her arms in front of her. Her lips formed a tight line. "I gave way so many times. I was against cooperating with Wesker from the beginning, yet I let you do what you thought was best. Well, it turned out to be wrong and I won't let everything go down the drain because you feel obliged to a friend-"

"I'm not-"

"- because he _isn't_ your friend, at least not anymore. He might have been once, in the beginning, but he definitely isn't now. He isn't even _human_ anymore!" Her eyes widened at the word and she uncrossed her arms again to underline her point.

"This isn't about-"

"Friendship? Common goals? The sake of science? William, this is a goddamn _trap_ and I don't need monster steroids to smell that from a distance! I can't say about Wesker – because you can never be sure with him – but this Wong woman is from Umbrella. The files prove it! She's probably working under Spencer's personal orders! Why do you think nobody intervened in your discussion at that café? Because this 'organization' was shielding you?" She snorted and her arms crossed again. "Because Umbrella is behind all of it."

He didn't answer. Mainly because she would just cut him off again and continue the tirade, partly because he was now reading the profile Annette had on Ada Wong.

Umbrella spy, infiltration agent, a list of other ranks and titles. He didn't know them all, but he got the basic impression.

Time of Employement: Started working for Umbrella in 1994 and…

"Cancel of active duty 3rd August, 1998. Cause: Desertion." He looked up at Annette, but she didn't seem to be intrigued by that fact.

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Annette asked. Her temper, as well as her voice had calmed a bit. "It just shows how brilliantly witty Spencer is. He _knew_ that we were going to question the deal sooner or later, so he did a thorough job."

Birkin shook his head. "This is too far-fetched. Why would he want to distract me from work? All Spencer wants are quick results and this is no way to achieve them."

Annette didn't have an answer to that, so he continued.

"Besides, Wong works for Wesker. She's seen what he's capable of – at least partly. If she doublecrosses him, then why hasn't Spencer gone after Wesker yet? He's without doubt the most precious specimen Umbrella could have at this time."

"I don't know…"

He'd gotten through to her, pulled her off the ride of madness and conspiracies she was on. The stress was affecting both of them. It made Birkin's eye twitch and Annette spend every free minute uncovering possible Umbrella spies.

She sighed and finally stopped pacing the room. Her shoulders sagged both in defeat and weariness as she came over. She leant against the big desk, pushing some of the papers away as she did so.

"I'm sorry," she began, but didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the floor. "Sometimes I… I just don't see a way out of it…"

"I know." He sat beside her and took her into his arms, holding her, caressing. It came to him how few of these moments they had. Usually there wasn't time or they were too tired, and when the opportunity provided itself it ended in consoling each other. He hated to admit it, but this was the result of Spencer's doing, of Umbrella, and ultimately, the G-virus.

"Annette?"

Her head was propped against his shoulder, eyes shut, and with her arms she returned the embrace. In this very moment there was only the two of them in the room, no Spencer, no Wesker, all problems locked outside. It was a moment of tranquility, something very rare. He realized how much he missed such moments.

But it was time to tell her.

"It's finished."

**

* * *

**

And here I ask myself again, how did Birkin know that the chapter would end right then and there? :P Divination? Woah, something you're not telling us, William?

**Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed and be ready for Chapter 17 of dum fortuna fuit! We're nearing the grande finale at a very fast pace...**


	17. Chapter XVII

Chapter XVII

Birkin drove the car out of the parking lot. Annette, who sat in the passenger's seat was silent, listening to him talk. He had explained to her how they needed to keep the finished product secret from Umbrella, how important it was that no one knew of its existence until they decided what was best.

"So I managed to extract the particles from Wesker's blood sample, and synthesized a similar form for the G-virus. The effects are not exactly the same. Unlike with the T-virus, where the substance turns the pathogen to the host's control, it affects G in the form of an antidote."

"In how far? It erases all traces?"

"No," he said and gave a heavy sigh. "No… I fear, it doesn't. At least not at this point in time. So far the results limit to early states of infection. The antivirus is applicable up to an hour after the host has come into contact with the G-virus. Since this strain, different to the T-virus, has a mutation rate that is twice as high, the antidote can't replicate fast enough to subdue the virus completely."

"So if an hour has passed and the antivirus hasn't been administered in that time, the G-virus will take its full effects?"

Birkin nodded slowly. "Right now, yes. But we're only talking about a time frame here. We have the base, which is the most important component. Everything else is only a matter of fine-tuning, detail work, if you will."

"Spencer won't be happy to hear that," Annette said.

He blinked. "What?"

"That we keep it away from him, that's what I mean. He wants the results as soon as possible. How long do you think we can keep it secret? How much longer will we pretend not to know the missing equation, even though we have finally solved it?"

There was an awkward silence for a moment, while Birkin weighed their odds.

"We'll take as much time as we need," he said, but it didn't come out as confident as it had sounded in his mind. "He can't do anything, not in this case. You know that." No, Spencer's hands were bound here. He just couldn't risk to do away with the Birkins like he did with other staff, when they stopped pleasing him. Annette and him, they were too important for the project, no matter what Ada Wong had claimed on their meeting.

"I'm beginning to have my doubts about it," Annette said and it was like a blow to the head. He glanced over at her briefly. Her eyes told him that she knew what the comment meant to him, but her expression remained stern.

"We're in a difficult situation, but nothing is easy with Umbrella," she began. "We've drawn it out endlessly now, the research, the work, tested Spencer's patience like no one has done before." She paused, let the words sink in and then said something he would never forget. "William… if you intend to stay with Spencer and Umbrella, I think it would be best to turn it over."

In that moment he felt the bile rise in his throat, and his hands begin to shake. Birkin pulled the car over to the side of the road. He suddenly felt tired, all the late nights at the lab getting back at him in that instant.

"Are you alright?" Annette asked, her voice full of concern, but he barely heard her.

He shook his head. "Annette… Annette, do you know what you're _saying_?"

"Yes, yes, I do. It's hard, and I would have avoided it if I could, but _god_, William, someone needs to open your eyes!"

He couldn't believe that, of all people, Annette, his own wife, was forsaking him. Now. At this crucial point.

"We've put a lot into this, perhaps more than was good – I don't want to question that – but it's enough now. Somebody needs to draw the line, to put an end to it, and, look at me, William… I don't want Spencer to end it with a gun and bullets and blood."

"He can't…we're too-"

"He _can_! He can if he wants to, and he goddamn will if you don't stop with this! William, think about Sherry. Think about me, or just think about yourself, if you want to. Do you remember James Marcus? How he was slumped against the cabinets, choking on his own blood?"

"You weren't there…"

"No, and I thank god for that. You told me and that was enough to burn it into my memory forever." She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it tightly, forcing him to look at her. "Will, I don't ever want to witness something like that. I don't want to see you slumped against some cabinet, choking on your own blood…"

He was silent. He didn't have anything to say. Birkin didn't want this to happen either. But what did Annette want now? She was against Wesker's offer and she was against Umbrella. Those were the only options provided to them. They had to choose one of them, before somebody else did. Spencer, for example, with a gun in his hands.

Birkin turned off the engine of the car, not capable of driving at the moment. "What do you think we should do?"

Annette didn't respond right away, as if going through what she wanted to say in her mind again. He could feel her gaze pierce through him, even though his own eyes were fixed on the steering wheel before him.

"I think we have to end this. We need to get out of this, as long as we can."

"I don't think we can anymore, not so easily…"

"Nobody said it's going to be easy. What was ever easy with Umbrella?" she asked again. Then she said, with a determination in her voice that surprised Birkin, "I think we should turn to the government."

"The government?" he echoed.

"Yes. The military. We need someone to watch our back, and they need someone who testifies against Umbrella. They try it for years now, to bring the corporation to fall. But they can't, because nobody has the courage to speak up against Spencer."

"Annette," he said heavily and sighed. "I don't think I have that courage either. I don't think this is the right way out of our problems. It'll delay things, but in the end, I think it will come down to this again. I don't think we'll be safe with the military. Not while Spencer still has an ace up his sleeve. Do you really believe that he'll just let us go like that? If he gets wind of it, we'll both sit there, chocking on our blood."

"And what do you suggest, then?" she asked. He could hear a mix of anger and desperation in her words. "You don't want to give him the G-virus, you don't want to leave the company. William, what _do you want_? I'm trying to come up with solutions – with ways to save our lives! – and all you do is shoot them down, and drag this out, and all parties involved are beginning to lose their patience-" he noticed how her voice slowly broke, and the last words were just gasps between sobs. "-and in the end it'll be us who draw the short straw, William, you and me and Sherry, and it'll all go down the drain, because we didn't do anything against it, just sat there and watched, and nobody will bother to give a damn once they have the fucking vial and…"

That was the point where he stopped understanding what she said. He took his eyes off the steering wheel, unbuckled his seatbelt and leant over to take Annette in his arms. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, but it forced Birkin to watch his own reflection in the window and he squeezed Annette tighter.

Looking back at him was a thin man with hollow cheeks and beard stubbles and a skin that was as white as a sheet of paper. He felt a wave of disgust wash over him as he regarded the sick reflection.

In his arms Annette was crying – she cried often these days – and as always when Annette was crying in his arms, Birkin promised himself that he would change things, that he would go to Spencer tomorrow and tell him that it was over, he was quitting the game. He would throw the cards on the table – Full House, haha, got anything better on your hand, Ozwell? – and take Annette and Sherry and be gone forever, no questions asked.

But deep down inside Birkin knew that he wouldn't go to Spencer tomorrow and tell him of his decision.

"Everything will be okay," he promised Annette and brushed through her hair.

Annette wiped off the tears from her cheek and looked up, pointing at the driver's seat. "Get out of there," she said. Her voice was still shaky, but at least she wasn't crying anymore. Birkin wondered how much a person could cry, and how long it would be until Annette reached her own personal limit. He knew that he had.

"I'll drive," Annette said and Birkin let her drive.

They reached home five minutes later. No words were said in that time. It was a pleasant silence.

They got out of the car and walked up to the house. All lights were turned on. Annette had often told Sherry to turn off the light when she left a room, but Sherry kept forgetting. Annette fished out the keys and opened the door.

The first thing he heard was a gasp – Annette's – then a wild thud down the stairs and then Sherry was suddenly in Annette's arms, crying and screaming all at once.

"_I didn't do it! I didn't do it! I swear I didn't do it!"_

From his position Birkin couldn't see what Sherry meant, or why Annette had gasped, but as soon as he pushed by the two and took in the state of his house, Birkin thought he would throw up right then and there. His guts had cramped to the point that his whole body hurt.

"They came, they did it! I didn't open! Mom,_ I didn't do it!"_

Furniture turned over, pictures ripped off the wall. He glimpsed into the kitchen. Fridge open, food on the floor, trampled. Knives, forks, spoons, everything was where it wasn't supposed to be.

"Sherry, shhh, shhh, everything's okay now. We're here, I believe you, are you okay…?"

Birkin didn't catch the last bit, because he was already rushing through the hallway, tore the door to the cellar open and took three stairs at once. When he reached the bottom – the light was turned on here, too – Birkin bent over and vomited the sandwich and two eggs he had eaten today.

Before him lay a chaos of glass shards, spilled liquids, broken equipment and papers. A chair was thrown to its side, the computer had been knocked off the table.

"No!" he cried. Tears soaked his cheeks almost instantly. Birkin fell to his knees. Cupping his face in his hands he cried, and didn't try to stop himself.

Sometime later, steps hurried down the stairs and Annette whispered, "Oh my god" behind him. He felt her body against his and two small arms embracing him. He looked up at Sherry. Fear was all across her features.

"Daddy!" she said and hugged him. Birkin returned the embrace, pressing Sherry close to him and stopped crying. You shouldn't cry in front of kids, even he knew that, because they got scared. Children shouldn't see their parents cry.

"Are you alright, honey? Did they do anything to you?" he asked, trying to distract her from the situation.

"They said I should go up in my room and stay there, and nothing will happen, that they're just looking for something… I didn't want to let them in, daddy, but they came and said nothing will happen if I go up and wait until you get home… but they broke so many things, I tried to stop them, daddy, I didn't want this to happen!"

He kissed her on the head, scooped her up and all three of them walked up the stairs. Annette took Sherry from there and they went up into Sherry's room. Birkin stood in the living room, or what was left of it. He turned the couch into its right position again. The TV screen was broken. Two lamps were knocked over, but they should still work.

Birkin thought about how the cellar looked and wondered whether whoever had done this, had found what they were seeking. His hand unconsciously gripped the small card in the pocket of his lab coat. He carried it around everywhere, ever since Ada Wong had given it to him. Birkin had never intended to call the number written on one side of the white paper, but now he thought it was time.

It was time to tell whoever was on the other line to leave him and his family alone, to keep out of his house and out of his life and that he didn't want to be part of this anymore. The last stake had been too high. He couldn't afford to put anymore into the pot.

Birkin went to the phone and punched in the numbers. When it rang the second time, he wanted to put the receiver down again, but it was already too late.

Someone picked up on the other side. The line was silent, and Birkin knew that had to speak first.

"Did you find what you looked for?!" he barked into the receiver. "Leave us the fuck alone in the future! I don't want to have anything to do with this! Don't ever put a hand on my family again!"

He wanted to add some threat to that, but it would only seem ridiculous coming from a man in his state. In retrospect, the whole call was ridiculous, no more than a frightened man blowing off steam. But at that moment, it helped.

He waited for a response, wondering whether the person on the other side was taking pleasure in his distress.

"You called the wrong number," said the voice on the other end in a calm tone, hardly bothered by his accusations. "The man responsible for this is Mr Spencer. My sympathies." Then, after a pause. "Have a good day."

The line went dead. The voice had belonged to his old time colleague.

_Fuck you, Wesker_, Birkin thought and slammed down the receiver.


	18. Chapter XVIII

Chapter XVIII

Spencer of course didn't know anything.

"It's a deplorable incident," he said flatly, folding his arms on the big oak table of his office. "Take all the time you need to recover from the event, Dr Birkin."

Birkin, sitting in the chair opposite of the Umbrella head mentally assured himself that there was more about than Spencer let on. There always was. It was the same as with Wesker, only that Wesker was less predictable than Spencer. For one, he knew that 'take all the time you need' had severe limitations like the fine print of a contract. Twenty years ago he hadn't bothered to read it. Now he was facing the consequences.

Spencer furrowed a bushy brow and leant forward slightly. "If you need any help in rebuilding your workspace, I will immediately send staff to your assistance."

Of course he would. Birkin scoffed, but did it silently enough for Spencer not to notice.

"I prefer doing it alone," he said. Spencer wanted to send in one of his agents to spy on his work, all right. He'd realized as much. The results procured in the Raccoon Lab were observable for Spencer, but he also wanted to catch a glimpse of what Birkin did at home. He couldn't say for sure, but perhaps the news about the G-virus' completion had leaked.

"As you wish," Spencer said. Birkin could see disappointment in his face. The tiny smirk that had formed during his offer had vanished instantly. The old man wasn't so good at hiding his emotions anymore. Perhaps it was the age, or perhaps Spencer just didn't need to. In the end he always got what he wanted, this way or that. Like Annette said: 'You can end it yourself, or you can let Spencer do it. With a gun in his hand.'

"Is that all, Dr Birkin?"

He was about to say yes, but it suddenly overcame him to try something else. He couldn't outright describe the urge, only that in that moment he hadn't been able to resist it. "One last thing. Given the late state of the research I would ask you if work can be discontinued until I revert back to my position. It shouldn't be more than a few days, but I don't want the researchers to do any mistakes in their eagerness, while I cannot oversee the process."

It was a big request, bigger than even a man in his position should ask for. But Birkin wanted to see how Spencer reacted. After everything that had happened he needed to weigh the odds. Would he stay with Umbrella, accept Wesker's offer or turn to the government, like Annette had suggested?

Spencer's lips turned into a barely visible line, like one of the many wrinkles on his face. "That will mean a great setback to your work, doctor." He unfolded his hands, suddenly not so comfortable anymore. "The project is already taking more time than planned, and here you ask for yet another delay. I don't know if I can agree with your proposal."

He turned his eyes from Birkin and looked at the Umbrella logo engraved into the wooden table.

"Hm… how much longer do you reckon will you need to complete it?"

"I can't say exactly. Perhaps a week, or a month. There is not much left to be done, but the detail work takes up the most time."

"Isn't it applicable without the 'details'?" Spencer enquired.

"It is," Birkin said and knew instantly that he'd made a mistake. Quickly he added, "but not controllable. The mutation still destroys too much of the host's body as that it can be used on live subjects successfully. And the alternation is irrevocable. We have to slow down the mutation process in order to be able to halt it at a desired point."

Spencer held up a hand. "Enough of the scientific talk, Dr Birkin. Indulge your co-workers in it, but not me. You shall be granted this pause, but be aware that it is your last. I have been waiting long enough. I expect the final results by the end of the month."

Birkin wanted to ask 'And if not?' but the Spencer continued without being prompted.

"I might see myself forced to assign more staff to your project otherwise. The French division is a bit unchallenged after the finalization of the Nemesis program. I'm sure they would welcome the dare."

"I understand." Oh, and how he did. He had heard the threat behind the old man's words exactly. He knew what that meant. Spencer was going to end the game soon.

"Of course, if you complete the virus on your own, there is nothing standing between you and your desired position in Umbrella's executive board."

Birkin nodded gravely. That was his reward for the G-virus. At first he had been overjoyed, working on the project with great zeal, but the more he delved into it, the less he wanted to give it away. Not even in exchange for a place among Umbrella's top.

"You should return to your home now," Spencer said, not bothering to hide the disinterest in his voice. The matter seemed to have cleared for him. "Your wife and daughter must already be waiting."

_Keep your hands off my family_, Birkin didn't say, but nodded in agreement anyway. Don't let him see what you think. Keep up that poker face, no matter how bad the cards are.

--

"Annette?"

She closed the door softly behind her, indicating with a finger over her lips that Sherry was sleeping. Ever since the house raid Sherry refused to go to sleep alone anymore. She would insist that either Annette or himself where there until she dozed off. He guessed it was normal, after what Sherry had experienced. They should all thank God that nothing had happened to her

They walked into the living room. Most of the furniture they had been able to save, apart from a few lamps and the television. The cabinet it usually stood on was empty now. It gave the room a 'wrong' look in his eyes (even though he never watched TV) but definitely not as wrong as it had been when they came upon the mess.

"What is it?"

"Sit down," he said and dropped on to the couch. One of his hands clutched something in his jeans pocket, wondering how he should go about it the best way. Annette took a place beside him, one brow furrowed in worry. She always furrowed her brow when she was stressed. He hadn't told her yet, because she would just say that this was a revenge for the remark of his twitching eye. Meanwhile he accepted the twitching. When all this was done, he would try to get rid of the habit.

"I have something for you." It didn't sound romantic or mysterious. He was too tired for that kind of things. Probably she was too tired to notice it anyway. Brushing his fingers across the small object in his pocket, Birkin pulled it out by the chain.

It was a golden pendant, slightly bigger in size than a fingernail. There were no fancy decorations on the outside. Some might call it plain, but he knew that its value wasn't its looks, but rather, what dwelled inside.

Annette took it from his hand with a surprised gasp and opened the locket. It flapped in half and revealed a picture of him and her on either side. Their portraits were smiling at each other. That picture had been taken in 1983, he remembered, on an autumn morning when Annette had convinced him to skip work and instead spend the day with her.

More than that day though, he remembered the next. It was a mix of guilt and strange satisfaction as he reported to work the next morning. Wesker and Marcus were both present already and looked at him expectantly as he entered. Especially Wesker showed a bemused smile. Marcus inquired where he had been, though he did it without the slightest trace of accusation. No; the question was posed more out of curiosity. Birkin had never missed a working day before, and barely left the labs in favor of Raccoon's nightlife. Wesker sometimes went to a club he could never remember the name of, but usually they both stayed back and continued work.

"It's amazing," Annette said. She managed to draw her eyes away from the pendant and looked at him. Then she leant forward and kissed him. He hesitated for a moment, but then returned the gesture. He needed to tell her, but he could tell her later, right?

"It's amazing…" she said again, this time as whisper in his ear.

For a moment Birkin considered to pull away and _tell her_, but then decided against it. Instead he pulled her closer and enjoyed one of the few moments where worry was securely locked away.

He'd tell her some other time.

--

"What's that, mom?" Sherry asked and pointed to the golden something that had disappeared under her blouse. They were both lying on Sherry's bed, discussing the girl's day at school. She had squabbled with one of her classmates about an assignment given to them by the teacher. Sherry had wanted to do things one way, 'Christina' the other. It had ended in a heated argument and pulled hair.

Annette reached for the pendant. "This?" she asked, viewing it to Sherry. "It's a gift from your father."

"From daddy?" The girl's eyes widened with curiosity. Gifts were something rare in the Birkin house, especially among the grown ups. "Can I see?"

Annette took it off and gave it to her daughter. In a matter of seconds Sherry figured out the mechanism and opened the locket, revealing Annette's and William's smiling faces. She brushed a finger over the pictures.

"It's beautiful," she said in awe. "You both look so happy on it. Where are the pictures from? Daddy didn't take them out of the photo albums, did he? If it was in there, I don't remember it."

"It isn't from the album," Annette explained. "We made this long before you were born. I think it was at the time your father and I started dating."

Sherry grinned. "Really? Though you _did_ look young there."

"Did look young?" Annette asked in a playful tone. "What are you implying, missy?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all!" Sherry broke out in giggles.

"So I hope!"

There was a short silence, where they both examined the pendant more closely. Though the pictures were small, Annette saw the differences her daughter had mentioned. She saw them especially in William. Fifteen years ago his face had not been lined with worry. His eyes had been full of fascination and untroubled eagerness. Nowadays they were haunted, reflecting the fear that had nestled deep inside.

"Know what?" Annette said, taking the pendant. It was a spontaneous decision. She sat up in the bed and Sherry did too. Annette unclasped the chain and without another word hung the locket around her daughter's neck.

The girl was about to protest, but Annette put a finger on her lips.

"As a good luck charm."

* * *

**And this is how the sample of the G-virus got into Sherry's hands. Annette will only learn of its real importance when it's already too late, but that is something for another story.**

**In other news, one of my good friends, MA-121, took inspiration in ab esse ad posse and created what I call a masterpiece of RE artwork! The link to her picture can be found in my profile and I encourage everyone to check it out!**


	19. Chapter XIX

Chapter XIX

Birkin placed the last vial into the metal case, feeling his heart leap a beat. This was it. He'd done it. Now, there was no way back anymore. The trunk clicked closed and Birkin sighed.

He was alone in the room. Alone with a set of microscopes, flickering neon lights above and a set of viral samples of all of Umbrella's projects.

Annette and him had signed the contract three days ago. It promised them protection from the company, research time and everything else that potential employers offer. The government had been more than happy with their decision and showed it in the form of a high-number cheque. Not that money had been the factor influencing their resolve. Money was irrelevant in a position such as his. Not the position as head researcher, of course, but rather that of a target. One quick pull of the trigger and his time was over. Birkin would have accepted the deal even if he had to pay for it.

There had been other options to choose from too, but he knew that both would lead to dead ends. Staying with Umbrella any longer was impossible. If not his physical wellbeing, then certainly the mental stress would have finished him sooner rather than later. Same with Annette. Perhaps even worse for her. Her eye didn't twitch when she was nervous, but she had lost weight and color and life, if you could call it that. Her eyes were hollow when they weren't struggling with fear and she seemed to have aged ten years in ten weeks.

He knew he didn't look any better, and ever since the raid of the house the situation began to affect Sherry, too. If you wanted to believe Freud's theories, the event would resurface in her later life. Birkin didn't want his daughter to end up as a pawn of Umbrella, or possibly even as a leverage used against them.

Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do - Dr. James Marcus, whenever the situation required it.

It did, now. In less than four hours everything would be over. He and Annette would walk out of the facility, get into their car and drive up to the meeting point – Wallace Street 14, close to the St-Michael Clock Tower. From there it was a five minute walk to Sherry's school. They'd pick her up, and then somebody would pick them up. Goodbye Raccoon, goodbye Umbrella.

They'd take a plunge into the big pool of anonymity. That meant goodbye Birkins, too, he guessed. At least it didn't mean goodbye life. He'd hate to say goodbye to that.

Behind him the automatic door opened. Birkin spun around, one hand protectively on the metal case. It was only Annette – who else should it be? – but the _whoosh_ of the door always unsettled him.

"Are you finished?" Annette asked.

"I'm ready here. Everything is prepared."

Normally they wouldn't talk openly about such things. All labs were video and audio supervised. Normally the room would be full of six or seven security guards by now, all pointing their weapons at him and bellowing, _'Put your hands behind your head, doctor! No quick movements, hands behind your head!'_

All cameras on this level were disabled due to some technical malfunction. Someone had, not so accidentally, dropped his beverage on the control panel for a small extra to the salary. The technicians were only programmed to arrive this afternoon. By then the Birkin family would be long gone, hopefully a few hundred miles away from Raccoon City.

"Okay, then," Annette said. "I only have to pick up the files from 323." She glanced at the case that contained the world's most dangerous biochemical weapons. "Check them again until I'm done and then we can go. We'll be just in time to get Sherry, if we can avoid the afternoon traffic."

They both knew that the afternoon traffic was an insignificant detail, but in a situation like this every possibility and odd should be considered. Annette looked demonstratively at her wristwatch, then the door _whooshed_ open and she was gone.

Birkin turned back to the case. He entered the five digit code. There was an affirmative beep and it clicked open. Nine samples were safely stored within. Most were T-virus derivatives. Chimera, Hunter, Eliminator, Tyrant, human, leeches and plant. There was the early strain that had developed from Lisa Trevor's merging with the Nemesis parasite, and of course there was the G-virus.

Birkin took the G-vial. He could see the wall on the other side through the clear purple liquid. For a moment a heavy doubt overcame him. This version was the up-to-date one according to Umbrella's data.

As of yet there was only one sample of the real finished product and that lingered within a hidden vial in the pendant he had given to Annette. The pendant Annette had mistakenly given to Sherry. The exchange had been his fault. He had delayed in telling Annette the true meaning of the locket. Now, their daughter wore the hazardous agent around her neck, ignorant to the danger. He had already ordered an identical piece of the jewelry and Annette and him had agreed to exchange the lockets when Sherry was sleeping. There was no reason to upset the little girl even more, not after what had happened. She treasured the gift more than anything else and it would break her heart if they took it away.

Behind him steps echoed in the hallway and the door _whooshed_ open.

"That was quick," he said and turned around to face his wife.

What he faced were the muzzles of three guns, all pointed at him.

"Put your hands behind your head, doctor! No quick movements, hands behind your head!"

Three Umbrella executives – they didn't wear the Umbrella logo, but he knew they were here on Spencer's order – with their fingers on the trigger. They wore combat suits and gas masks, making an identification impossible. But he knew they were from Umbrella's special forces, because for an instant he had the picture of Wesker in his mind. Wesker, who complained about the bad ventilation in the masks, when he had switched from the research division to the information bureau.

He was frozen. There was a slight tremble in the tip of his fingers, but it wasn't enough to lift his hands behind his head.

"Doctor, we're here to collect the G-virus." one of them said. For the next awkward moment nobody moved. The stakes had just increased beyond the limit. Spencer had stopped playing fair, Wesker kept his business to himself and Birkin had the worst cards since the beginning of the game. Marcus would say 'if you wanna play you gotta pay' but Marcus was long dead already.

Without really planning to, he took a step backwards. Three guns adjusted to his new position.

"Stop! Don't move!" the gas mask barked. Finally, Birkin raised his hands. By now, his whole body was shaking and the realization hit him with the force of a fist to the eye.

"_You can't have it!"_ he cried. The emotional part that had taken control over his actions did that. The logical part screamed to be rational and do as they wanted, because this wasn't some Hollywood movie where the hero surprisingly survives the hail of bullets. It was crude reality, where one well placed shot was enough to make the lights go out.

"Sir, hand over the case, or I am forced to retrieve it myself," the executive said and made a step towards him. It was that step that ended it all. Birkin stumbled back in momentary shock, tripping over the chair.

He lost his balance and fell against the drawer. By the time he was sinking to the ground – always keeping his hands behind his head – the shots started. The _trat-trat-trat_ of the machine pistol was all he could hear. He felt an unnatural warmth spread over his torso and back, a warmth that shouldn't be there. The pain only came later, moments before the end.

When he regained consciousness again the gas masks were gone. He hadn't even noticed them leaving.

The door _whooshed_ open again and Birkin feared they had come back to finish it. But it wasn't them. It was Annette and the look on her face as she saw what happened was enough to tell him that he wouldn't make it.

She was beside him in an instant and her eyes were full of tears. She pressed her hands against his chest and when she retrieved them, they were bloody.

"Oh my god, William…" she stammered, "…stay still…stay still… I'm going to get help… don't move-" _put your hands behind your head!_ his mind finished for him "-everything will be okay! Hold the hand here press don't let go I'll be back William, don't die, do you hear me don't die William _WILLIAM!_"

He wanted to tell her that he understood and that he pressed the hand where she had put it, but the only thing coming from his mouth was thick blood.

The next time he blinked Annette was gone again and he was alone, a dying man ending in his own blood. He pressed harder to the spot Annette had instructed and only then noticed that he held something in that hand.

The G-virus.

He thought,_ Goodbye Raccoon, goodbye Umbrella_ and _goodbye Sherry, goodbye Annette_.

Then he did it. Because sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do - William Birkin, towards the end of his life.

--

Annette browsed the cabinet without really knowing what she was looking for. Tears were blurring her sight and the only thing she could really see was William slumped against the wall with a red lab coat instead of a white one.

She couldn't hold back the sobs and was grateful that nobody else was in the room, or had been in the corridor before. What were they going to do? Shit, what was _she_ going to do? She had counted at least six darker spots and even though none of the bullets should have hit the heart, how was William supposed to survive six bullet wounds?

She took a handful of the sterile bandages and two antibiotic bottles, sheers and a medical sewing kit.

Annette Birkin had never run so fast in her life as she did when she made her way back to 311, the lab where William drowned in his own blood.

The door before her opened automatically. As soon as Annette stepped through it was as if she collided against an invisible wall. The items she was holding fell to the floor and her arms dropped to her side, useless. For a moment she was in a daze, not being able to process what she saw. The blood was there, and it had multiplied dangerously in the last few minutes.

William, however, wasn't there.

What he had left her were bloody footprints and a torn, crimson lab coat, but there was no William.

There was an empty syringe where he had sat.

She wanted to say 'What have you done, William?' but she knew exactly what he had done. The realization forced her to her knees, her legs not supporting her anymore.

"What have you done…?"

There were droplets of purple liquid in the syringe. There was no question as to what he had injected himself with.

"God…_god_ what have you _done!?_"

And what was _she_ going to do? What could _she_ do? For a moment she doubted that William was still alive. He couldn't be. Nobody survived such an injury, nobody just _walked away_ with such an injury.

Then, the logical part of her mind kicked in. The scientific part. The researcher. Mutation had certainly begun by now, only hastened by the necessary tissue regeneration. Did William even look like William anymore? Was the man she knew and loved still alive at all?

Then it came to her.

DEVIL.

Administered within the first few hours it might be able to reverse the process, hadn't he said so? He had, he had, she was sure he had. But how was _she_ going to give it to him? The virus enhanced aggression and that emotion would only be fueled by the pain he must go through.

He would swipe at her, kill her, without even being aware of what he did. He would strangle her and hurt her and wouldn't realize that all she wanted was to _help_. That she just wanted to help!

Annette cupped her head in her hands, suddenly understanding the extent of the situation. Oh god… oh god, but wouldn't do it, would he? He wouldn't… Only, deep down she knew he would. Because William wasn't William anymore and it was in the nature of all viruses to reproduce.

From that moment she knew they were all doomed.

The thing William had become would take terrible revenge and it wouldn't be able to distinguish between good and bad. She had to help him, make him see, but he would tear her to shreds the moment he laid eyes upon her. What could she do? What could she _DO?!_

The only thing that was left to be done, of course.

If someone had asked her if she would ever do something like that she would have straight-out denied it. She guessed that you could never know such things beforehand.

Annette crawled over to the torn lab coat and prayed to god that she find what she sought in one of its pockets.

She did. The little white card with the telephone number written on it was not so white anymore, but the number was readable. That was the only thing that mattered.

Annette had never put all her eggs into one basket. For the first time she did. She dialed the number and couldn't bring herself to stop crying.

On the third ring, someone picked up.

She was shocked into silence for a second, then the sobs broke through again.

"…you need to come!…. _god_, you need to come!… he's infected – _INFECTED_ – Albert… please… _you have to come…!_"

Annette cried too hard to understand his answer, if there even was one, if the man she had implored had even been Albert Wesker. By the time she calmed down, the phone had gone dead.

* * *

_This is the way the world ends.  
Not with a bang, but with a whimper.  
-T.S. Eliot_

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

**I know many of you will hate me for this ending. :P But at least you will have reason to check out the sequel (yes, there will be another one...)! That one will cover the events of RE2/3 from the point of view of our favourite characters. Annette, Ada and of course Albert Wesker.**

**Until then, however, I want to lead you way into the past, Pre-Mansion...**

**corpus delicti  
**the body of a crime  
_STARS are assigned to the case of a hysterical madman. When he takes down their car in the middle of Arklay Mountains, they are at the mercy of the psychopath hunter. Chris, Jill, Barry, Brad, Wesker... and a snowstorm._

**Until soon!**


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